


Arcane Asylum

by new_kate



Category: Merlin BBC
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 124,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/new_kate/pseuds/new_kate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. For the last twenty two years Uther Pendragon has been waging war on magic. Now his son Arthur has been framed for a magical crime and sent to the prison for magic users. Arthur is instantly targeted by the inmates, but mysterious top dog Merlin takes him under his wing. They form a bond, and Merlin decides to help Arthur clear his name. <br/>(Warnings: non-con and dub-con, though it's brief and not M/A, violence, death of minor characters )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Frame Job

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Restricted Work] by [irisemrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisemrys/pseuds/irisemrys). Log in to view. 



> Originally written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/2045.html?thread=655101#t655101) at [](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/profile)[**kinkme_merlin**](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/).  
>  Betaed by [devikun](http://devikun.livejournal.com/) and [ghost-guessed](http://ghost-guessed.livejournal.com/)

  
Up to the very last moment he managed to stay calm. Even when he couldn't stay still any more, even when his body started convulsing all by itself, struggling against the plastic restraints, even when the pain in his chest surpassed his capacity to bear. As everything was slowly going black and the roaring in his ears got so loud it was almost like perfect silence, he still remembered that it was all going to be over soon, he just had to get through this.  
   
When water finally rushed into his lungs he knew he was dying. Twenty two years of his past collapsed into one bright spot behind his eyes, and the future was blank, all over, nothing.  
   
At that moment he definitely would've used magic, if he could.  
   
He was almost done throwing up by the time he fully realised that he was conscious again. His father's face floated up into his foggy view, white, barely recognisable.  
   
"Are you satisfied now?" Father said. "My son is normal."  
   
"Uther, the evidence is damning," the Chief Crown Prosecutor's voice seemed to come from very far away. Arthur raised his unshackled hands, fighting the burn in his weirdly tired muscles, and rubbed at his ears to dislodge water. "You know these tests can only prove guilt, not innocence. He might still be holding back."  
   
"Every single one of them does magic when pressed hard enough. Arthur is normal."  
   
"Maybe we haven't pressed hard enough yet."  
   
When Father started yelling Arthur tuned them out and concentrated on the pleasure of breathing. Every inhale hurt like swallowing a wad of sandpaper, but it still felt dizzyingly sweet, just breathing, freely, as deeply as he could without making his raw throat seize up.  
   
"All right, I'm ready to continue," he said as soon as he was sure of his voice. Fear coiled low in his belly, present but contained, perfectly under control. "If I can't prove my innocence we'll keep doing this till we have reasonable doubt. Drowning again, or shall we try something else?"  
   
The room went quiet. Everyone was staring at him: the CCP, the guards, the medic, the guys in grey suits, whoever they were. Father's hand squeezed his shoulder, pleasantly warm against the wet splashes there.  
   
"No," one of the grey guys finally said. "If he's a warlock he clearly believes we can't crack him. This won't work."  
   
"Reasonable doubt," sighed the CCP. "Uther, we owe you this much – we'll keep the investigation open. We'll double-check everything. But we have to... Arthur, we'll have to detain you. Just until we find the real killer, if you really were framed. We'll have to put you in the Facility."  
   
   
   
"Arcane Asylum welcomes you, our little prince," said Muirden, bowing deeply. He was wearing a ratty labcoat over his orange uniform and a stethoscope around his neck, possibly salvaged  from one of the abandoned doctor's offices. Couple dozen inmates were flanking him, grinning and chuckling, giddy like kids about to open Christmas presents.  
   
"We've all been looking forward," Muirden steepled his fingers, shook his head and sighed blissfully, "Oh, for such a long time we've been looking forward to having a Pendragon."  
   
Arthur had expected to be recognised, probably quite quickly. He didn't know they'd already be waiting, even before he went in, or that they'd be leering at him like that with his father right here, watching.  
   
"I'll expect to see him here, in the courtyard, every day, when I bring your food," Uther said. "If he's not here to talk to me I'll assume that you murdered him. And then, God help me, I'll finally throw the switch on this place like I should have done long ago. I'll kill you all. I'll be very much past caring about consequences; I'll kill you all."  
   
They only laughed harder, completely unfazed. At Uther's signal the guards moved into positions, hoisting the machine guns as two of them dragged vats of food down the ramp through the gates.  
   
"I'll get you out, I swear," whispered Uther. "All you have to do is survive; nothing else matters."  
   
"Don't worry, father," he said, and managed a cocky smile. "I'll be fine. Besides, they might know something about the frame job. This could be a great opportunity to sort out this whole mess."  
   
Father's face was shaking, rippling like it was about to crumble into something awful. Arthur couldn't watch. He turned away and walked through the gates, following the food vats.  
   
"Lovely," said one of the inmates loudly. "It's been ages since they gave us dessert."  
   
The guards retreated and the gates slammed shut, and Arthur kept walking, holding the unhurried leisurely pace, just like he would walk across his college grounds. The courtyard was vast, thickly littered with rubbish and rubble. Unmanned watchtowers rose into the cloudless sky – dark accents against the grey concrete of the fence, silent awkward shapes. There were supposed to be armed guards on every one of them. There were supposed to be guards in the yard, and more inside the cell block, there were meant to be doctors, orderlies, medicines, rehabilitation programs. All that, as Uther put it, had proven to be unworkable. Now all they could do was hold the perimeter and keep the inmates inside the fence. The gates opened once a day, with thirty gunners covering the breach, gas and grenades at the ready, just for long enough to drop off daily rations and, once it a while, shove in another captured warlock.   
   
The welcoming committee let him stroll past them, and then they all started following him, literally breathing down the back of his neck. He fisted his hands inside his pockets and willed himself not to speed up, not to break into a run, not turn around, just to keep walking.  
   
Not all of the inmates were excited about having a Pendragon locked up with them. Some only spared him an indifferent glance and headed towards the food vats to ladle whatever slop they were given today onto grimy paper plates. Quite a few ignored him and the food altogether and kept wandering around the yard in aimless stumbling circles, muttering to themselves, or sitting motionless on the ground. Everyone in the Facility had been diagnosed criminally insane, of course, but somehow Arthur didn't expect that so many would look like actual basket cases.  
   
A tall, thick-set man stepped in front of him and chuckled when Arthur had to stop to avoid crashing into his chest. The group following him pressed closer, crowding him, leaving hardly enough room to move.  
   
"All right, lads, let's give the princess here a big, warm welcome," the big guy said, and was echoed by a chorus of cheers.  
   
Arthur could try to side-step him and keep walking, or open up a dialogue, bargain maybe, or even try to bond. Or he could just – and before the thought formed enough to show on his face he went for it and threw a quick, hard straight jab at the man's face, aiming to break his nose.  
   
Instead his fist hit something tough and barely yielding, like an invisible rubber wall, and stuck inside nothing, held fast, pulled further by a slow sucking force. Everyone laughed as he stood there with his arm outstretched into thin air, struggling against his own hand like a bad mime. Before he could react in any way, gain some measure of

control, he was wrenched up by that arm and had to grab onto it with his free hand to save his shoulder joint from dislocating. Then he was hurtling through the air; he hit the ground hard, all air knocked out of his chest. He didn't even get his breath back when they were all on him, pinning him down, spreading him in the dust, panting harshly above him. The air was thick with the smells of unwashed bodies, bad breath and something else, something crackling, viscous and suffocating.  
   
"This is what we should do," said an old man kneeling by his head. It took Arthur a moment to recognise him underneath his unkempt bushy beard and wild grey hair. It was the father of Sophia, the girl who tried to kill him – she'd been sent to the female facility. Arthur remembered them both screaming and crying in the court room, begging not to be separated. Strangely, he still could feel sorry for them, even now. "We should put a love spell on him. He's going to follow us around like a puppy, begging for a bone. He'll be so eager to please."  
   
"Yes, yes," giggled someone else, palming Arthur's face, and pushed at his mouth with a thumb salty with dried sweat, trying to pry his lips apart. Arthur snapped at it with his teeth but the hand jerked back, and his jaws only clanged together painfully.  
   
"Maybe later," said Muirden. He wasn't involving himself in the dogpile, content to circle them in slow steps and watch. "For now, I think, we'll just make his body crave it like a bitch in heat but leave his mind free to be disgusted at himself. It should prove to be most entertaining."  
   
The big guy crouched over Arthur and leaned close, close enough for a kiss, so close Arthur couldn't help but struggle against all the hands holding him down. They kept his arms and legs outstretched, pushed down with all their weight, and there was no leverage at all, not an inch of a give.  
   
"Don't mess with his head yet," the man said. "While he still has some fight in him, I want him to fight. I want to see him squirm and scream and call for daddy till he can't any more."  
   
"You want a fight?" Arthur asked. "Call off your flunkies and I'll give you a fight."  
   
The man snorted at him, amused.  
   
"Thought so," Arthur said, grinned and spat into the face hovering inches above his.  
   
He hadn't even seen if it had landed when a punch to his face rendered him half-blind with pain. There was more, punches to his gut, feet kicking his ribs, and he tried rolling with the blows and curl up to protect himself, but they held him too tight. And then they were tearing at his clothes, spreading his legs wider, clawing at his chest, twisting his nipples. The big guy moved between Arthur's naked thighs, grabbed his balls and gave them a painful squeeze.  
   
"Aw come on, Val, don't go first," someone was saying. "You'll tear him loose and ruin it for the rest of us!"  
   
"Don't worry, not a problem, I'll fix him up, he'll be tight as new," said Muirden cheerfully. "Go ahead, Val, don't hold back."  
   
Arthur briefly considered banging his head against the ground to try and knock himself out, and decided against it. This was going to happen, he'd known perfectly well it was going to happen if he ended up here. He would face it and he would get through it. Besides, he was going to be here for days, maybe weeks, maybe longer, and this was likely to happen a lot, and giving himself multiple concussions would be a really dumb long-term strategy.  
   
Large clammy hands were prying his arse cheeks apart, kneading and pinching them, and then hard and slick flesh jabbed at his clenching anus. It hurt, and it sent raw wrenching jolts shooting up his spine, like pinching a nerve. But it was hardly worse than a beating, or being held underwater till he passed out. It was going to get much worse before it would be over, but if he just didn't panic – if he could just hold on -  
   
Suddenly everything stopped. They were still holding him down, but the thrusting pressure was gone, and they all went completely silent. He could only hear his own shaky breaths and the sound of approaching footsteps.  
   
"He's mine," said someone. The voice wasn't loud, but it rang in the sudden silence, and the hold on Arthur's body disappeared abruptly. He pushed off the ground and rolled up into a crouch, ready to strike out.  
   
There was a man walking across the yard toward them. He didn't look like much – gawky, skinny, prison uniforms hanging off him awkwardly. Except for his eyes, which weren't even remotely human. His whole irises were glowing, shimmering with bright golden light.  
   
"Come with me," the man said and extended his hand.  
   
Arthur stared at it and tried to gather his thoughts. He wasn't going to take orders from anyone here. But then again, he didn't really feel like saying "No, I'd much rather stay here and get gangbanged in the middle of the prison yard, thank you."  
   
The other inmates, the same ones that were about to rip into him just moments before, were pulling him to his feet and tugging his clothes back on. Okay, that he could work with. His boxers were torn up, trampled into the dust by his feet, so he gave up on them, let the men manoeuvre his legs into the jeans and stepped back into his shoes. Two inmates immediately knelt front of him to retie his shoelaces. The others were fastening the surviving buttons on his jeans and shirt. Someone was even smoothing down Arthur's hair and straightening his collar.  
   
"One of these days, Merlin," said Val, furiously gritting his teeth, and the others hushed at him and pulled him back. Muirden was hovering at the newcomer's side, the usual smile plastered to his face.  
   
"Merlin, if you happen to break him, I would be delighted, absolutely delighted to offer any medical assistance. Any time. It would be my pleasure."  
   
Merlin ignored him, still holding his outstretched hand. Only then Arthur noticed a small boy, no older than eleven, stood by Merlin's side, watching Arthur with a blank expression. He didn't seem scared, or curious, or anything other than closed off, almost catatonic. He wore the same orange uniforms as the men, far too big for him, with collar hanging loose and sleeves and trousers rolled up carelessly. Arthur's stomach churned.  
   
Merlin sighed impatiently, took hold of Arthur's wrist and tugged him toward the cell block. Arthur wavered on his feet and went, mostly because he didn't want the child to see what would happen if he struggled.  
   
Nobody followed them.  
   
As soon as they were through the doors Arthur stopped and twisted his arm free.  
   
"Nice move," he said. "Sending your flunkies to soften me up so I'd be pliant and grateful when you offer me protection."  
   
Merlin turned to look at him. This close Arthur could see that he was young, maybe younger than him. Maybe still a teenager.  
   
"I don't need protection," Arthur said firmly. It could've came out better. He was shaking with spent adrenaline, so hard that his teeth clanged as he spoke. The fire in Merlin's eyes flickered.  
   
"Yeah, you were doing great out there," he said. His voice was unexpectedly soft.  
   
"I was fine. They can't do anything to me."  
   
"You have no idea..."  
   
"They can beat me, fuck me, screw with my head, but they can't do anything to me. Neither can you."  
   
Merlin stared at him for a moment. His lips trembled and then twisted into a bitter smile.  
   
"I used to think that," he said. "They could lock me up, hold me here, but they couldn't touch me. Couldn't change me. I was wrong."  
   
Arthur raised his chin and smiled back. The shaking had stopped, but now every scrape and bruise he got today started to hurt and throb. His arsehole stung painfully and he struggled not to twitch.  
   
"Anyway, they're not my flunkies," Merlin said.  
   
"Yeah sure, they're just that afraid of you."  
   
"Yes."  
   
"Right. And why is that?"  
   
"Because they've met me. Come on, this way."  
   
The inside of the cell block looked even more wrecked than the yard, like a bomb went off in here, probably several times. There were long scorch marks of the floor and the wall, and a crack running along the ceiling, letting in some of the dimming daylight. All the cells stood open, most doors twisted off viciously, hanging off the hinges like unfortunate modern art installations. Some of the bars looked melted. Still, there were a few working lights, obviously they still had power in here, and there must've been running water. Uther had never brought them water.   
   
There were more inmates milling around inside. A few of them seemed completely absorbed in drawing bizarre symbols on the floor, arguing with each other in hushed voices, some sat inside the cells on the bunks, eating or waggling their fingers at nothing and muttering to themselves. One was reading a thick tattered book; he waved at Merlin, not looking up from the page, and got a quick nod in return.  
   
There was a huge ugly graffiti on the far wall, spread out to take most of its height. It seemed to depict a deformed carnation; on the second look Arthur decided that it was just a splatter. It looked like a giant red paintball got fired into the wall from a cannon and exploded all over the bricks. There were some bits stuck to the paint or embedded into the wall, most dark, a few dull ivory white.  
   
Maybe it hadn't been a paintball after all.  
   
Arthur forced himself to turn away and, while swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat, somehow allowed Merlin to steer him further along the cells. The boy was still trailing after them, silent and obedient like a tiny ghost.  
   
"Why is the kid here?" Arthur asked, trying not to sound hysterical. He didn't feel hysterical. He was fine.  
   
"Because he's one of us," Merlin answered, terribly matter-of-fact.  
   
"I thought it didn't manifest till puberty."  
   
"Can happen much earlier."  
   
"Oh. Is he... Does he talk?"  
   
"Never to strangers."  
   
"Are you..." Arthur reached out and grabbed a handful of Merlin's orange shirt. The warlock stopped and blinked, looking down at his hand in obvious confusion. "Listen, just tell me this now. Did you call dibs on this kid, like you just did on me? Are you making him pay for protection?"  
   
Merlin's brow knitted while he processed the question. Clearly not the sharpest... mental patient in the asylum.  
   
"Oh," he said finally, cringing. "Oh, of course not. Do you really think I'd – no, I get why you'd assume something like that right now. But that's not what we are. Nobody would do that to him. And even if someone wanted to, Mordred doesn't need me to protect him."  
   
The boy looked up, shifting his glance between them, and for the first time there was something on his face. He looked puzzled.  
   
"Mordred is my nemesis," said Merlin with a fond smile as he reached out and gently ruffled the boy's hair. Mordred didn't flinch away. He actually leaned into the caress, perfectly matching Merlin's expression. That didn't mean anything; that could've been Stockholm Syndrome. "So we bunk together, because, you know, keep your enemies close and all that."  
   
"What the fuck," said Arthur flatly. He was starting to feel like he was running out of emotions. Like today was too much for his brain and his body and now nothing would make any sense at all till he could curl up somewhere safe and dark, and sleep for about a week.  
   
"We have a few seers here," explained Merlin. "Charlie over there and some others. They all tell us the same thing: that one day Mordred will destroy that which I love the most, unless I kill him first."  
   
"You don't believe that, do you?" Arthur asked cautiously. Merlin's hand was still resting very close to the boy's thin neck, but Mordred looked completely unafraid, even amused. He seemed to like hearing this story.  
   
"Of course we believe it. Seers can't be wrong. But, we thought about it and what I love here the most has to be mac'n'cheese day. And I'd miss it if Mordred somehow destroys it, but it seems a tad harsh to kill him over it."  
   
They held a dramatic pause as he gaped at them, and then Mordred shook with silent laughter and playfully butted his head against Merlin's side. His eyes lingered on Arthur with a curious sparkle this time, studying him.

They climbed two flights of stairs and walked to the last cell in the row.  
   
"This is where we live," Merlin said, making a grand gesture with his thin arm.  
   
Arthur was braced for the dubious splendour of the prison lord's habitat, but it was just a standard two-man cell. A corner cell, furthest from the stairs, probably the quietest one in the block, but still just a cell, bare and small, with only a bunk bed and a plastic cafeteria chair for furniture, and it was even more of a mess than the rest of the Facility. Arthur stepped inside, carefully picking his way through mounds of dirty plates, dirtier spare uniforms and various other litter he didn't even want to identify.  
   
Mordred made straight for the rumpled bunk, fished a sketch pad and a handful of crayons from between the pillows, stretched out on his belly and started doodling. Arthur leaned against the bars and crossed his arms on his chest.  
   
"All right, Merlin, let's hear it."  
   
"What?" asked Merlin dumbly, perching on the bunk.  
   
"Offers, threats, what did you bring me here for."  
   
"Well, I just thought... They'll keep coming after you, you know. Because you're a Pendragon, and because you're not one of us. And, because you're so beautiful."  
   
He shuffled his feet nervously. There were two spots of blush spreading on his pale cheeks. Arthur raised an eyebrow and scratched at the bruise swelling on his jaw.  
   
"And?"  
   
"And you'll be safe here. I can keep you safe."  
   
"And in exchange, do you think I'll roll over and be your prison bitch? Or are you trying to score a favour with my father? Because, let me tell you, that's even less likely."  
   
"No, I don't want anything," said Merlin, blinking at him like the conversation was really too advanced to follow.  
   
"Then why are you doing this?"  
   
"What do you mean? What am I supposed to do, stand aside and let them at you?" Merlin glared at him angrily; his ears were burning bright red. He had rather spectacular ears. "Is – is that what you'd have done in my place?"  
   
"No, of course not," Arthur conceded.  
   
"Then why would you think I – oh right, because I'm a warlock, I'm a monster, we all are!" Merlin's angry scowl turned sour; his pupils were starkly black against the gold, and looking into his eyes was more difficult now, as if the glow became too bright. "You - oh, you're just like your father."  
   
Arthur always liked hearing that before: that he was just like his father, that his father would be so proud of him. Nobody ever used that as an insult before. He knew, of course, that to his enemies Uther was a fearsome, terrifying figure. Arthur had heard many of them yelling curses and threats in the court rooms over the years; he had bruises swelling all over his body right now as a tangible proof of their hatred. But he expected just that from them – hatred, violence, thirst for revenge, all because they were defeated, afraid and bitter with impotent rage. It only showed how weak and twisted they were, proving everything his father had always said about them. This teenage warlock had no right to look at him like this: with contempt, and something like disappointment.  
   
"Well, if you don't believe me, then how about this," Merlin said. "If something happens to you here, your father will probably, I don't know, nuke us from the orbit or something. So here is me, warlock, looking after my own interests, all right? And I know you think we all deserve to die, but there are some good people here, innocent people, who never hurt anyone!"  
   
"Why do you even care what I think?" Arthur asked, a little confused by the intensity of his outburst.  
   
Merlin sighed and hunched over tiredly.  
   
"I don't know," he muttered. "I just... I don't want you to get hurt. Do you have to make it complicated? I just want to help. Stay close to me, and everything will be fine."  
   
He sounded so sincere, and with every moment in his company it was getting harder to believe he was the top dog here, running the place with an iron fist. Arthur was starting to wonder how did this clueless kid even survive to his age, let alone managed to terrify the other inmates enough to show him all that regard.  
   
"So, you really weren't behind that thing in the yard?" he asked.  
   
"I swear, I didn't even know."  
   
"If that's true it means you've just cockblocked a bunch of angry warlocks. They might have backed down for the time being, but it doesn't mean they've given up. Do you even have any allies except for the nemesis here? Do you understand what kind of situation you've put yourself in?"  
   
"They won't do anything."  
   
"Merlin, I'm getting the feeling that thinking isn't really your thing. But try it for once. If you were really as scary as you think you are, you wouldn't be locked up here in the first place."  
   
"There were circumstances," mumbled Merlin, almost pouting.  
   
"Yes, I'm sure there were. And there will also be circumstances when you wake up on fire, with magical bugs in your head. That guy, Val? He's going to do something. He's a coward, he won't make a move till he thinks he's got a clear advantage, but that doesn't make him less dangerous. Quite the opposite. And Muirden will stab your you in the back the moment it's turned, that's what he does. I don't even know what the others are capable of..."  
   
"You don't know what I'm capable of, either."  
   
"Oh, just shut up, will you? I'm here because someone has a grudge against my family. This isn't your fight; this is, in fact, none of your business. Whatever you're offering – I'm not going to accept it."  
   
"Your consent doesn't actually matter to them," said Merlin wryly. "You might have noticed. Whether you accept or not you're my business already, because I told them so. And why the hell are you even arguing with me, anyway? Are you just being a prat for the pleasure of it?"

"Because, Merlin, I've no reason to believe you don't want anything from me, or believe anything you say! You don't look like you could protect a cup of tea, and I don't want to be responsible for whatever happens to you if you get in the middle of this. Just - stay out of it."

"You're worried about me?" Merlin let out a short disbelieving laugh. "You, right now, worry about me? That's either completely stupid, or..."

He trailed off with a slight frown, his eyes searching Arthur's face. His mouth fell slightly open, and Arthur did his best not to stare at the soft curve of his lips. Letting himself be attracted to this man, or, heavens forbid, letting it show - that would be a truly idiotic move at this juncture.

"Completely stupid, yes," Merlin said breathlessly, as if having read his thoughts.

They both stared down for a few seconds, silently.

"So what are you planning to do, anyway?" Merlin asked. "It's almost lights out. You're barely standing. At least sleep here tonight, get some rest. You're safe here, I promise."  
    
Arthur peered outside through the bars. The building was filling up with inmates making their way to their cells, settling into beds. It was too late to try and find a hiding place to hole up in till dawn, not without a working knowledge of the layout. Everything had happened so fast today; if only he'd had time to prepare for this...  
   
He caught sight of Muirden climbing up the stairs on the other side of the block, still surrounded by his merry bunch of lackeys, and the man turned to him immediately, as if he felt his glance. Maybe he could do that. Muirden waved at him cheerfully and said something to the others. They all looked at him and laughed, and then stood there, watching him, waiting for his reaction.  
   
"All right, just for tonight," Arthur said grudgingly.  
   
"You can have the top bunk," said Merlin, and Mordred gave him an impressive death glare and kicked him in the side. "Come on, Mordred, you never use it."  
   
The top bunk was occupied by a family of play-doh sculptures of medieval knights in armour. They were a bit misshapen and lop-sided, but lovingly detailed. The shields were cut out of paper plates, and all the men were armed with rusty nails. Arthur gathered them up and carefully deposited them along the wall.  
   
"I believe these are yours," he told Mordred. "They're pretty good. Well, the swords are a bit rubbish, they're supposed to be flat and edged, not round. We'll work on that."  
   
Mordred looked at him thoughtfully and busied himself with rearranging the pillows.  
   
The lights blinked twice and slowly dimmed, plunging the building into darkness.  
   
"Huh, you actually still have lights out," said Arthur.  
   
"I could turn them back on," said Merlin from somewhere in the dark. "But we might as well sleep. You must be tired."  
   
Arthur kicked off his shoes, climbed on the top bunk and after several deep breaths managed to take off his shirt. Then he put it back on and decided not to undress. It wasn't that warm, and the sheets didn't smell anything like fresh, and, well. In case they got visitors at night, he might as well not be naked for that. He was going to stay awake and keep watch, but as soon as he put his head on the flat lumpy pillow every bit of today's events crashed back on him, and he'd never felt so tired in his whole life...  
   
When he woke up - still exhausted, sore all over and completely disoriented, on scratchy, musty sheets in a room that wasn't his - he tried for a moment to fall asleep again and put off the inevitable moment of facing reality. If he just kept his eyes shut he wouldn't have to see where he was. He wouldn't have to remember the endless interrogation, the assault he had been utterly helpless against, their hands on his bare skin and the sharp, piercing pain that still lingered inside his body.

Even after he finally decided to get up he couldn't make himself move for a very long time. He lay there, rigid with tension, his eyes burning and his chest painfully tight. He stared at the bars, the lines of cells circling the block, at his own wrist, ringed in purple bruises, and breathed slowly, slowly. When the lump in his throat completely dissolved, he shifted to the edge of the bed and peeked at the bottom bunk.  
   
Merlin and Mordred were still asleep, sprawled on their backs side by side like people with nothing to fear. They hadn't bothered with undressing either. They were both so skinny that their bodies barely touched on the narrow bunk; the only point of contact was Mordred's small arm flung possessively across Merlin's chest. Mordred frowned and drooled in his sleep; Merlin looked peaceful, relaxed, and, despite the stubble, very lickable.  
   
Arthur looked at him for a while, tracing the lines of his face with his eyes, for purely aesthetic pleasure. Under different circumstances he'd feel sad that someone like Merlin, so young, still so human, would slowly rot in prison for decades till nothing was left of him. But now he himself was in here too, facing the same possibility if he even managed to survive, and it wasn't productive to dwell on worst case scenarios.

He quietly climbed down and left the cell. Nobody was camped outside waiting for him, as he had half-expected. It was a nice day outside, and the building was almost empty. Anyone catching his eye quickly looked away. It seemed that he could roam around freely, at least to some extent.  
   
He went into a cell that seemed deserted, used the toilet and washed up at the sink. Then he went back.  
   
They were still asleep. He stood by, watching them, and considered his next move.  
   
He knew better than to trust his feelings around magic users, because you could never tell if you were under enchantment. But he was pretty sure he could still trust his common sense. He turned away and went to work, trying not to make noise.  
   
He stacked dirty plates by the door, gathered rubbish into a discarded pillow case, folded all the clothes that didn't seem too disgusting and put them in the corner. The mysterious pile under the bunk turned out to be mostly art supplies and loose sheets of sketch paper with Mordred's drawings on them. Arthur organised the crayons and play-doh on the chair and leafed through the drawings. There were a lot of knights, odd-looking horses, princesses in elaborate dresses, but most were of Merlin, or Mordred and Merlin together, standing side by side. Some, probably the older ones, were just two black-haired figures, one short, the other with Merlin's remarkable ears, but the ones on the top of the pile were starting to show actual resemblance. A few sketches of Merlin were pretty good, especially studies of his sleeping face. They would also be a bit stalker-creepy if Mordred wasn't just a little boy who liked to draw.  
   
Arthur picked a few best ones, stuck them to the walls with pieces of play-doh and stepped back to admire his work. The place was starting to look all right.  
   
"Morning, Arthur," sleepily drawled Merlin behind him.  
   
He was sitting sat on his the bunk, rubbing at his eyes, yawning and stretching his long, lean arms. His hair was mussed in the way that made Arthur want to rumple it even more.  
   
"Where's Mordred?" he asked instead. The boy was nowhere in sight.  
   
"He'll be back soon, he's fine. What are you doing?"  
   
"This is called tidying up, Merlin. I understand this is a foreign concept to you, so consider this a practical demonstration. Pay attention, you'll be doing this from now on."  
   
"Um, why?"  
   
"Because this is your room and it's your responsibility to keep it in order. I'm your guest so I get to kick back and watch. But don't worry, Mordred will help you, he needs to have some chores. Structure and boundaries are very important for a boy his age."  
   
"Is that what your father says?" grumbled Merlin, not looking very psyched about the idea of structure.  
   
"This isn't about my father, this is about me having no intention of living in my own filth. You shouldn't live like this either, and it's definitely no good for a child. All right, so today, after we grab some food and a shower, we're going to make a doorway in this wall, right about here, into that other cell. Let's see if your terrifying magical powers are what they are hyped up to be."  
   
He sat on the bunk next to Merlin and nudged him with a knee, just because. A friendly gesture. Merlin was smiling widely, seemingly lost in staring at Arthur like he just met him.  
   
"A doorway?" Merlin asked distantly. There was something different about him today, but Arthur couldn't quite put a finger on it. He looked – really good, somehow even prettier than last night. His whole face seemed softer, sweeter, more open. Maybe he was just well rested after a long sleep.  
   
"Yes, so we'll have a two-bedroom place. This is too small."  
   
"Oh! That could be Mordred's room! Or, yours. If you want some privacy. I just thought, Mordred's a boy, he'll want his own room..."  
   
As he blushed and stammered, Arthur finally got it. His eyes weren't glowing today. There were just blue.  
   
"Well, we'll see," he said. "Bottom line is, we're going to be making some changes around here. Start small and see what we can do. So I'll need your help with this."  
   
"All right, Arthur," said Merlin, beaming. "And sorry for calling you a prat. Which you kinda are, but. Sorry."  
   
He bit his lip and nudged Arthur's leg with his knee, cautiously, like he was testing the water.  
   
There were light footsteps outside, and Mordred appeared at the cell door with three plates of mysterious greyish goop balanced in his hands. He stepped inside, slowly traced the room with his eyes, his little face unreadable as ever.  
   
"Morning, Mordred," said Arthur. "I moved your stuff, hope it's okay with you."  
   
The boy's eyes were fixed at the point between him and Merlin, where their knees still touched.  
   
"Breakfast," said Mordred hoarsely and shoved a plate at Arthur.

 


	2. Changes

There was a time when Uther Pendragon barely knew anything about magic.

He knew his history, of course. He never liked history, and was quite crushed when he was told, at the age of eleven, that it was an essential discipline for anyone aiming to go into politics. But he was good with names, facts and numbers, as he had to be, if he wanted to get anywhere. And so he studied, passed tests, and wrote the kind of papers his teachers had expected to read. The papers that agreed that history was made by the slow, tidal changes in the society, brought on by combination of multiple factors – religion, technology, economy. That history wasn't made by people – that it didn't take just one man's will and vision to turn the tide, if desired or necessary.  
   
Thus, he knew about the early cults and their part in cultural and military developments, and about the unification of the Old Religion, and about the great post-Roman Purges, and the role of magic in the Saxon invasions. He remembered the names of the most prominent court sorcerers of the Middle Ages, even though he never put much effort into learning what each of them had become famous for. He studied the Forty-Years Arcane War and diligently attempted to understand its logic. Of course, like many others before and after him, he eventually gave up and memorised the timeline from his textbook, even though it made no sense whatsoever.  
   
"We only have the outside account of it, of course," said his professor apologetically. "The magic community isn't exactly forthcoming. What we are looking at is, essentially, only the history of collateral damage we took. We can only guess at what really happened - the working theory is that certain parts of the war might have occurred backwards in time."  
   
Somewhere around the Age of Discoveries the Old Religion quietly faded from the history books into complete oblivion. There were the druids, and their passionate on-again, off-again love-hate affair with the Green Party, which was endlessly entertaining and often politically useful. But nobody quite knew if the druids were still part of the Old Religion, or even if they ever truly were. When they weren't wringing their hands for the cameras, screaming about the Balance of Nature and crimes against the Earth, they weren't exactly forthcoming either.   
   
The woman in the visitor's chair hadn't said a word after greeting him. She sat there, looking utterly comfortable in her stiff, frozen posture, and looked into his eyes. She was young, striking, extravagantly dressed. Not what he'd expected at all.  
   
"So you're saying you represent the Old Religion," he said. He wasn't entirely sure what made him agree to see her. She didn't even give her last name - his aide had only shown him the letter as a joke, with no intention of actually making an appointment.  
   
"I am the High Priestess," she said. He couldn't tell if that was yes or a no.  
   
"Can you present any credentials?" he asked, and she smiled, slowly, widely, with genuine amusement. Her lips were very red. It must have been lipstick, of course; what else could it be.  
   
"I could," she said. "Do I need to?"  
   
The deep blue of her eyes seemed to be darkening, turning into inky, stormy purple. There was something in the room with them, singing in the still air of his office, some presence, leashed and restrained, just waiting to come forth. Uther felt sweat break out on his back, soaking his shirt.  
   
"No," he said quickly. "But nobody has heard of the Old Religion in centuries. I had no reason to believe it even still existed."  
   
"The Old Religion is the force that binds together the elements of this world," she said. Her voice bounced off the walls, as if the room was much bigger than in was. "It's very much alive. Magic is the spirit of the land, and it goes where it will, as it shall always. But I know what's troubling you. Yes - we've stayed away from the public eye for a very long time. It was decided to have been necessary."

"Why?"

She gave him a smile that could be considered patronising, if it wasn't so alluring.

"In a darker age, at the dawn of time, magic was one of the very few weapons we had against the hostile world. Back then the Old Religion nurtured the young race of men. We fought disease and pestilence, warded off natural disasters, culled the predators, nourished barren lands to fertility, gathered and passed on lore and knowledge."

He briefly imagined his visitor in a furry bikini, throwing fireballs at a mammoth. Thanks to years of practising his game face, he was certain his amusement didn't show.

"But as a child needs nurturing care of a parent, an adult needs to learn to stand and live on their own. We recognised that, and we stepped aside to let the people flourish to their full potential, instead of stifling them. We left the courts of kings, and closed off our places of power. We spent all that time in contemplation, honing our craft, no longer meddling in the affairs of the world."

"Well, the druids certainly remained politically active."

"The druids serve the balance. They do what must be done at any given time. Back in the day, when there was a sorcerer beside every throne, the druids were hermits, forest-bound. They had no dealings outside their circle. It was only a short time ago when they stirred from their slumber - a few decades at most, perhaps? If they are compelled to act in any way, the balance must require it."

"So they aren't a part of your denomination?"

She laughed.

"I suppose that's one way of putting it. They are my kin, but they don't answer to me, or anyone and anything apart from the balance. Nor are they free to exercise their powers outside of their purpose. They simply are, like the moon and the wind. We, me and you, are different. We have the will to use our power."

Now she was finally getting to the point. He leant forward in his chair, indicating avid interest. She inclined her head conspiratorially, letting thick locks of hair slide down her milky-white shoulders. 

"Now, in this day and age, the humanity needs not rely on Magic for survival. Modern medicine, science and technology can fight off for most everyday perils, and the new religions provide solace and ritual for those in need. Now, finally, the Old Religion and the people of the land can reunite and stand together, not as a charge and a caretaker, but as equals. Now, then we have risen above the constant battle for survival, we can reach for higher goals."

"Such as?" he asked.

"I think my goals are the same as yours, Uther," she said, and he didn't have it in him to bristle at the familiarity. "We both want what's best for our people and our land. And we both want to spread our wings and do all the things we're capable of. And we're, each in our own way, very capable people."

She was good. Under different circumstances he might have considered hiring her. 

"But let's not rush things," she said, smoothing her dress over her knees. "All I want for now is for us to become friends. If my people are to return to the world, we need to start forging connections. Just think of it as - lobby, is that right? You'll have our support, and we'll have your ear."

"Why me?" he asked. The talk inside the Party was that he was "a done deal", "in the bag", but the election was still very far away, and the odds seemed uncertain. She could have just easily gone to the opposition.

"Let's say, we read it in chicken entrails," she laughed heartily. "And now, having met you, I can see that the signs were true. Things are about to change, and you're in the centre of it all. You are marked for great things, Uther."

If he didn't know she was working him, he'd have thought he was being seduced. Then again, those weren't mutually exclusive.

"Perhaps, as a gesture of good will, I could grant you some small favour," she said. "I'd like to give you a little taste of what can be. What does your heart desire, Uther?" 

For one moment he got carried away with his current train of thought. But temptation never lasted long. His heart was well and truly taken, and he submitted to the fact that he was, as his friends put it, completely pussy-whipped. The fact that all of him belonged to one woman forever didn't make him less of a man. 

But as he thought of Igraine he thought of her tears this morning, when he found her in the bathroom, staring down at her bloodied nightshirt. The fertility treatments weren't working. Every month brought another lost hope, and they had too many years of those months already behind them.

"Perhaps," he said. "I might have something in mind."

 

*

 

For every life drawn by magic into being, there was a price to pay. Magic went where it wanted and took what it needed, whatever was nearby to take and ripe for the taking. A fertilised egg, just grappling for its place in the womb. A body ravaged by age, with life barely sparkling inside. A tortured soul on the edge of a precipice, one little push. Any of that would do, and the world would keep turning, no poorer for it. And most of the time, nobody would even notice. There was no need for Nimueh to tell the Pendragons about any of this.

Of course, what magic truly hungered for was a sacrifice. Magic would take what it needed, but it would never not take what it was freely offered. 

"I want this child more than my life," Igraine said. Nimueh flinched and lifted her hand from the woman's belly. 

"You don't mean that," she said. "Don't say things like that lightly."

But by then it was already too late.

 

*

 

"Well," said Gorlois. "Just in case you were wondering. We won the election."

He was probably in shock. They were both, most likely, in shock.

"It's a landslide," he continued, wandering around the room, poking at the bodies with his feet. "Nothing like the polls predicted. But the papers are out, so. Everybody knows about Igraine."

"They can shove their pity votes up their arses."

"You're stepping down, then?"

Uther started laughing, and recognised right away that it was a mistake. Now he couldn't stop, cringing at the sheer wrongness of it, rocking back and forth against the wall he sat at, and tears were streaming down his face and dripping on the bloodied floor.

"I think I might, old chap. I think that might be a good idea."

"Who are they, anyway?" Gorlois finally asked.

"Priests. Nimueh's entourage. I've seen them before. Except for that one. He's new."

There were three dead bodies in the room, and not even a drop of her blood. The bullets simply melted as they reached her. Maybe if he had something better than a handgun... 

"So you burst in and shot them all," said Gorlois again. 

"Yes."

"And then she left, unharmed."

"Yes."

"Well," said Gorlois, "Right. Well, you did the right thing to call me. We can take care of this."

"She killed her, Gorlois. She killed Igraine. Whatever she did to her - it killed my wife."

"Uther, Igraine died in childbirth," said Gorlois in that special voice reserved for talking to small children and psychopaths.

"I was there, I saw it. It was magic. As soon as they pulled the baby out, this - light, it rose up and it took her, before she could see her child, it took her..."

His gun was empty, and he didn't have any more ammunition, just that one clip he had hidden in his study. A highly illegal keepsake of his time in the army. If the gun wasn't empty - but no. He wouldn't give up so easily. He had a reason to live. He remembered.

Nimueh had been unharmed, and she had him pinned against the wall, and he was writhing there, helpless, howling in rage and despair. He was mad with it. His mind was a perfect blank, apart from one intent. He had to kill her. He had to make her suffer, and then he had to kill her.

She told him that it wasn't his destiny to die by her hand. He struggled, not understanding a word, putting all he had into trying to reach for her. He would tear her apart with his bare hands, rend her flesh with his fingers. He had to kill her.

"We'll make this all go away," said Gorlois, as always visibly pulling himself together as he started to work on a problem.

"It was murder," said Uther. "In fact, it was a political assassination. She killed my wife, and she has to pay."

 

*

 

They made the bodies disappear. There were no witnesses. Nimueh liked to stay outside the city when she came to see him, in old abandoned buildings. He suspected they might be the "places of power" she liked to talk about. Not that it did her priests any good.

The hospital staff gave their statements corroborating his, and Nimueh was wanted for murder. She'd gone to the ground, as he expected she would. Even if she would have accused him of the attack it would be a word of a wanted murderer against his, and no evidence to back her up. But he knew she was too proud to seek help in his world's laws. She would hide and wait for this storm to pass, and she could wait centuries. She'd done it before.

He had to take down her support system. The Old Religion was sheltering her. To get to her they had to go through her cult first. That was going to take years, but it could be done. He stepped down, as he planned, and let the Party pick the man for the job, citing bereavement. His old, less public position would give him more freedom to concentrate on his goals, and still more than enough power to achieve them.

"The hospital called again, sir," said his secretary. 

"Some problem with the statements?"

"No, sir. They're asking when you'll be taking Arthur home."

It took him an effort to remember who Arthur was.

"Ah, yes. Make arrangements, please," he said. "No expenses spared. A wet nurse is required, I presume."

 

*

 

He had a great deal to learn about the enemy, and very little opportunity to do it. They were doing all they could, pushing new bills through relentlessly, working the public opinion, but the legal machine needed time to work. For now the sorcerers were hidden amongst his people, enjoying the same civil rights as them, protected and untouchable. Snatching away their children to brainwash them and train them in their ways. Laughing at him behind his back. 

He knew this much by now: magic needed to be taught. He went to see some people who were touched by it, but didn't get pulled into the net of the Old Religion for whatever reason, and were never trained. They were drooling quietly on their straightjackets, when they weren't screaming their heads off. _Make it stop, make the fire stop, make the dreams stop._ They didn't know it yet, but they would be the lucky ones when he was through.

Magic needed to be taught. That meant every sorcerer had a teacher, and their teacher had been taught by someone before. They were all connected to each other, and if you could get a hook into one of them you could unravel the net, student from teacher, down to the very source.

But first he had to put them outside the protection of the law. He needed to expose them as the criminals they were, as a real and immediate threat. Then they could be apprehended and questioned. Some of them would turn back on their ways, repent, recant and escape justice, but that was fine. With every disciple abandoning their cause the Old Religion would get weaker.

Sometimes, in rare respite from work, Uther imagined himself an anti-sorcerer, conjuring up new laws like hungering spectral beasts. They would eventually grow into power and take on the life of their own, and set off on their hunt, relentless, unstoppable. But it was taking so much time, and he was growing restless.

"I'm going to re-enlist," he told Golrois. "A tour of duty would do me a world of good. Things here are set in motion, I'm not needed for now."

"What about Arthur?"

"Well, obviously he'll stay here, he's a baby. I suppose I need to make some sort of additional arrangements with the nurses."

"No, don't. We'll take him. Now that Morgana is toddling the old lady's getting broody again, she'd love that."

"That's great, that's very good of you both," he said. "I don't think I'm going with RAF. What I need is a land war."

 

*

 

It was exactly what he needed.

Back home, in safe and steady life, the sorcerers had every opportunity to stay hidden, wolves between the fat, sleepy sheep. Here they were no safer than anyone caught in the crossfire, and the war drew them out in the open with cruel efficiency.

He saw a woman run across the road, mindless of the bullets kicking up dust around her feet, to reach a small child trapped between lines of fire. She grabbed his hand and they both disappeared into thin air.

He saw a slight man raise a wall of sand with the wave of his hand. The sand rolled down the road, straight at them, roaring like a living thing, and swallowed two tanks whole. The warlock went down when shot, just like a normal person.

He saw a frail old crone, swathed in layers of cloth, trot across the minefield. They yelled and waved at her to turn back, but she kept going. They heard the mine go off, and threw themselves down to escape the blast wave, but there was nothing. They got up to see the old woman crouching over the mine, and a glowing ball at her feet. The explosion was trapped inside it, frozen, a sea of fire in a snow globe. The woman pushed the ball with her foot, and it sank into the ground, and she walked away while they stared.

He saw a girl sitting on the ground by a tent in the camp, surrounded by soldiers. The men sprang to attention as he walked closer.

"Sir no sir, no funny business," said the one he questioned. "Girl's hustling is all. Palm-reader. Reckon no harm in that, sir."

They did allow the locals into the camp, to trade and as a show of good will, to garner some support. He ordered the men at ease. The girl looked up at him, unafraid and smiling. She was holding the hand of one of the soldiers when he arrived, and now she took it again and muttered something under her breath.

"Your fate," she said. "A pretty woman, yes? Orange hair. Name Laura."

"Fuck me," said the soldier. "How can she know the name? Man, this is a trip! All right, so is she waiting for me or what?"

"Yes, yes," the girl said. "Your fate. Two girls, one boy. All orange hair."

The man laughed, looking equal parts stunned and delighted.

"Guess I better propose then," he said. "Three kids! Guess I better start saving up, too."

"Me, me," said another soldier, handing the girl some coins, and pushed his palm at her.

"Your fate," she said, tracing the lines with her fingertips. She looked like a seasoned entertainer, enjoying the attention and their excitement. "A book, yes? People read, you famous."

"I'm gonna get published!" yelled the man. "Take that, cuntfaces! I tried last year, but they turned me down."

"What's it about then, the war?" asked someone.

"Flowers," announced the girl. "How to grow."

"Shut up!" the man said, blushing as everyone laughed. "There's a lot of dough in popular horticulture, all right?"

"Me, do me," said another one. She took the money, touched his palm and winced. 

"Your fate," she said with a wide fixed smile. "Big hero. Medal."

"Sweet, man! Anything else? Women, money?"

"Can't see," she said, hiding her eyes. "Just medal."

"Enough of that," Uther said. "Run along now, young lady."

He caught up with her far outside the camp, not too close to the village. She stopped when he called out and ran back to him.

"Say your fate, yes?" she said, eager to make more money. He tossed her whatever coins were rattling in his pocket, and let her take his hand. 

At the first touch her smiling face turned sickly pale; she made to run, but he grabbed her wrist and she tumbled into the dust by his feet, too terrified to struggle. 

"No, no, please," she stuttered, her face already wet with tears.

"Say it," he demanded.

"Your fate," she said, sobbing. "You kill me."

"Can fate be changed?"

She looked up at him, clinging to that shred of hope.

"Yes," she said with a wide, fake fixed smile. "Yes!"

"I think you're lying," he said. "But let's try. Tell me who taught you magic, and we'll see what happens to my fate."

 

*

 

Many days later, many faces later, he was on the edge of a cliff, at the end of his pursuit, and an old man with jet-black eyes was looking at him, muttering something under his breath.

"If I kill you now, many lives will be spared," he said.

"Do it then," said Uther, straining against the spell. "Kill me. Finish it."

"It's not my place to gift life and death," said the old man. "It's not your destiny to die by my hand."

He wasn't speaking English. His lips weren't even moving – his voice sounded inside Uther's head, invasive and expressionless.

"I could bind you here, forever. I could purge your mind and render your harmless. I could turn this around, here and now. But we both must serve our purpose, and it's not our place to presume otherwise."

"Changes are coming," he continued, and now he sounded like two voices twisting together in Uther's mind, talking over each other. "Magic is returning to the world."

"No. I will stop you. I will end you all."

"Nothing can stop it now. Not even you, dragon slayer. You will live through it all, and before the end you'll see your world in ruins. You will see everything you have taken from you."

"That is already done," he said. "I have nothing left."

The man closed his eyes for a moment.

"Then you are lucky. I wouldn't wish for a destiny like yours. But I thank you."

"For what?"

"The magic," said the man, in a croaking, heavily accented voice, his real voice. "It's coming."

He whipped his arms into the air and threw himself backwards off the edge of the cliff. As he fell, still looking up into Uther's eyes, his fingers grew longer, longer, till each was as long as his forearm, his face narrowed, his flat nose sharpening to a point, his clothes fell apart, into thousands of long shapes clinging to his skin. The change lasted only seconds, and then a black-eyed bird beat its wings and rose in the air, far overhead, not sparing him another glance.

He was freed of the spell. He had come as far as he could here, and he had learned a lot. There was work to be done back home.

 

*

 

"You look better," Gorlois said.

"Thank you. I feel better. You've done wonderfully, all of you. The ban on the Old Religion seems a done deal."

"Well, those freaks themselves really helped, when they blew up the inspectors we'd sent. Didn't at all like us heathens touching their magic stones."

"You warned me about them from the start, old friend," Uther said, stopping to squeeze Gorlois's shoulder. "I should have listened. They weren't to be trusted."

"She was useful, though," said Gorlois. "Back before... Wasn't anything she couldn't do, if we asked for it."

"They are powerful. That's what makes them so dangerous. They don't forget, either, and they don't forgive. We can't turn back now. It's war."

"Well, so far we're winning by a wide margin."

They walked to the gates side by side. There was a small dark-haired girl in the front garden, doing something to the rose bush with what looked like a pen knife.

"Daddy!" she yelled joyfully, waving, and hid the knife behind her back as an afterthought. Then she saw Uther and backed toward the house, suddenly shy, or scared.

"This is Arthur's father, Morgana," Gorlois said. "Go get him for us, will you, sweetheart?"

She nodded fast, too many times, and ran into the back garden, her skirts swinging above her skinned knees.

"She's so... big," said Uther, a little confused. Last time he saw Morgana she was swathed in pink and ivory lace, her tiny face barely peeking through the ruffles of her bonnet. Back then she looked like a collectible Victorian doll, or perhaps a walking over-frosted cake. She hadn't even been quite walking yet, just waddling unsteadily on her chubby legs.

"It's been a while, you know."

There was a loud crash that sounded like a bunch of flower pots sent flying, a rustle in the bushes, and a little boy tumbled out on the path, nearly crashing into Uther's knees.

Uther had seen him before, of course, the nurses were annoyingly persistent about it. He remembered his son as something oddly shaped, red and screaming, that one day was going to grow into a man.

The boy was standing there, round-eyed, staring at him intently. He didn't look like – Uther couldn't see any family resemblance to either of them yet. The boy's fair hair wasn't golden but ashen blond, nearly white, sure to change colour yet. His face was soft and round, nothing yet to hint at his father's sharp features or delicate fine-boned beauty of his mother. Only his eyes – deep blue, with the slight upwards tilt to their corners that made them exotic, catlike, but only if you really looked, – were her eyes.

Somehow until this moment he hadn't quite realised that it had happened, the miracle he and Igraine were hoping for. Here he was, this boy, with a scratch across his nose and fresh garden dirt all over his playsuit - this was Arthur Pendragon, his first-born, his heir. Their son.

"Hello, Arthur," he said, feeling incredibly awkward, conscious that he shouldn't reach out, or let his voice falter, or do anything that might confuse and distress the child. "It's me, your father."

The boy smiled uncertainly, stepped closer, as if considering a hug, and wavered there, lifting his little hands and dropping them again, staring up at him with the mixture of desperate longing and – almost fear. His eyes quickly welled with tears, and his lower lip began to tremble.

"Don't cry, Arthur," said Uther, fast, before it could become unbearable for them both, and schooled his own face into stillness. "You're a Pendragon. We don't cry."

 


	3. Two Bedroom Place

  
Arthur spent most of the day in Merlin's cell, trying to keep busy. Merlin did make a doorway into the adjoining cell, as he told him to. It only took a few whispered words and a wave of his hand; his eyes lit up once again, just for a second, and a door-sized chunk of concrete slowly fell out of the wall and crashed to pieces all over the floor. 

Clearing out the debris and concrete dust that immediately coated everything took hours. Arthur suspected that magic could take care of that, too, but working helped him stay focused, even if he mostly managed Merlin and Mordred and only moved the heaviest chunks by himself. Also, seeing magic this close - and actually allowing and endorsing it - felt like breaking the law, and he wasn't even sure which law. He didn't have to report the warlock, they were already in prison, and nobody really cared what went on inside these walls as long as it stayed inside, but he still felt like he could get in trouble by just watching magic being used. Which was completely ridiculous, considering that he couldn't possibly dig himself any deeper than the charges he was facing already.

Once they were done, Merlin went out to fetch lunch, leaving Arthur alone in the cell. Mordred didn't really count. After getting a little excited during their redecorating effort the boy was now wiped out, and had gone back to his drawings, ignoring Arthur completely. Arthur left him to it, went into their new cell - just in case, so the kid wouldn't be right there if something happened - sat on the bottom bunk and waited, sweating buckets. 

Now would be the first opportunity for the other inmates to attack him without directly confronting Merlin. They didn't have much of the window, just a few minutes – enough for a kill but not anything else, which they still might settle for. Unless they would coordinate their efforts and have someone delay Merlin in the yard, while the rest would strike here and drag Arthur somewhere else, where they could take their time with him. Merlin didn't seem at all concerned, but he was overconfident and hardly a genius.

The corner cells didn't have the full view of the rest of the block, so he couldn't see if they were already converging outside. They would surprise him when they would come, not that he could do much with a few seconds or even minutes of advance notice.

The cells were tiny, and normally this would be a great advantage for him. Even two attackers would only get in each other's way if they were to fight him inside. They'd have to come at him one by one, and he would be comfortable with those odds, even if there were knives involved. But none of that applied to these people. He didn't know what limitations they had, what their tactics were, what they could do to him with their magic.

He counted down seconds to steady himself as he watched the inmates walk up and down the stairs, along the cells across the block. Some of them would throw him a sidelong glance, but only for a second, and continue on their way. He listened to dozens of different footsteps on their side of the walkway, just outside where he couldn't see. They would shuffle past, approach, sometimes linger, drift further again. When Merlin returned with the plates Arthur was so pathetically pleased to see him he had to fight down the impulse to hug him.

The lunch was more of the same cold congealed goo they had for breakfast. That shouldn't have been a surprise, since all they had to eat was the food Uther brought in yesterday afternoon, but he still felt horribly cheated. He found himself looking forward to the next meal that would be brought in fresh today, hoping that it would be something different. Didn't even had have to be better. Just a different kind of goo would do. He ate as much as he could force himself to, mostly just to prove to himself that he wasn't so shaken up by his prison adventure as to lose his appetite.

"So," he asked, because they might as well have a conversation. "How long have you been here?"

"Mmm," said Merlin, looking uncertain. "I came in about, uhh, four, five months before the riot, I think.

"But that was over a year ago."

"That long?" asked Merlin without a spark of interest. "Huh. So what happened to you? You're not actually magic, this makes no sense."

"Somebody framed me," Arthur said. Now this was just like a prison movie; his next line should be 'The cops screwed me over, I'm innocent, I swear.' But he was innocent. This would be resolved soon, it had to be. "Why do you even ask? I thought everyone here already knew. They'd waited at the gates. How the hell did they know?"  
   
"They scry, obviously," said Merlin. It sounded like 'They watch the news, obviously'. Arthur suddenly realised that this had to be in the news by now, and it had to be the front page story. Uther Pendragon's crusade against magic fails to uncover a deranged warlock in his own home. Arthur Pendragon: witch and mass murderer. All his friends had to know by now that he was thrown in the Facility, same one his father had built and ran; he could already imagine all the clever jokes. When he got out - and he would get out - this will be a hell of a thing to live down. Someone was bound to believe that he was guilty, that his father got him out by pulling some strings. He'd have to live with the whispers and rumours for years, maybe forever.

He wasn't even going to contemplate what would happen if they found out what had happened to him in here.

"I don't, so I didn't know anything," Merlin was saying. "I heard someone yelling that they brought Pendragon's kid in, and went to look what that was all about, and saw... um. So, what did they do, did someone plant magical things in your room?"

"Someone killed six people. In an all-night shop on my street. No survivors, no witnesses. All the tapes show me throwing fire from my hands, at the cashier, and the customers. There was a couple there, the girl only fourteen, the guy sixteen. There was..."

He remembered all the faces. They made him watch the tape about dozen times during the interrogation.

"I know the cashier, I shop there - I bought a Red Bull from him last week. We talked about football," he said, remembering the man's gap-toothed grin, his stretched earlobes and a rather stupid Arsenal tattoo on his arm. "They were killed around 2 am on Monday morning. They were lying there, dying, and I was home asleep. Apparently, this means no alibi and plenty of opportunity. And, well. It does look like it's me on the tapes. I have no clue how it was done, and nobody can tell. The police don't even believe that the tapes were faked."

"Of course they were faked. It's only tapes," Merlin shrugged. "Just images. Not hard to do at all."

"Oh, you're a forensic expert now?"

"Well, I haven't tried anything like that. But I used to make five quid bills into twenties all the time. That was pretty easy, and they held up under currency detectors in shops."

"What? Those bills aren't even the same size!"

"Not the same colour, either," Merlin grinned cheekily. "You're thinking about the second law of thermodynamics right now, don't you?"

"Shut up," he huffed. "Wait - did the twenties turn back into fivers later?"

"Don't see why they would," said Merlin thoughtfully. "Not unless I'd have fixed them to do that. But that would just be wrong, I used that money to pay for things."

"Yeah, whereas faking the legal tender is all right? So, the tapes are there to stay, most likely."

He tried to think, but he really needed more information. Merlin finished eating and just sat there, gracefully slumped against the wall, looking at him through his impossibly long eyelashes.  

"It will all work out, Arthur," he said reassuringly. "You'll probably be out today."

"Yes, probably."

Uther was going to be here soon. He had to make himself presentable. His father had to see that he was fine.

"Do the showers still work?" he asked. "I haven't had a proper wash since the day before yesterday. I need a shave too, can you get me a razor? I guess hair gel is too much to hope for around here..."

He couldn't quite believe he was going to actually take a shower in prison. That he really was going to strip naked and stand there in the open, soaping himself, when Val and Muirden and any number of others could just waltz in. But he felt utterly filthy, he still had their sweat on his skin, and his whole body itched to be scrubbed clean and scoured with hot water. 

"I'll come with you," said Merlin, and once again Arthur felt overwhelmingly, shamefully grateful.

"Yes, you'd better," he said. "I can actually smell you from here."

Merlin pouted at him all the way to the showers. 

"Maybe we shouldn't leave Mordred alone," said Arthur belatedly, as Merlin rummaged in the rubble of a pillaged storage room for the supplies. 

"He's not a baby, he's not going to choke on a crayon," muttered Merlin. "He'll find us anyway the moment he gets bored, he's impossible to lose even when you really want to."

"That's not what I meant. Someone might... do something to him."

"To Mordred? Oh, hardly. And why would they, he's one of us."

"They might target him to get back at you for yesterday."

"Don't worry about that," said Merlin, quite callously in Arthur's opinion, and handed him a bundle of toiletries wrapped in something that could only be a tea towel. A tiny, thin tea towel. It was grey with layers of perma-filth embedded into fabric from the months of use on an unknown number of badly washed bodies. The edge of the towel was striped with ancient dust, and when he attempted to brush it off it compacted under his fingers and turned into some unnatural breed of sticky, greasy superdust, possibly with mutant powers. Despite all that, the towel still somehow managed to unapologetically stink of bleach.

The showers were spectacularly disgusting. Black mould crept freely up the walls, rust stains spread around every pipe and drain, and the showers nozzles were covered in lime crust, green at the edges. The floor - he wasn't going to look at the floor. It was clear that nobody around here even considered cleaning in over a year. If he had any doubt that everyone here was completely wrong in the head, the state of their showers would be all the proof he needed.

He found a spot on the bench that didn't look like a giant Petri dish of deadly bacteria, and began taking off his clothes. 

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. His skin wasn't broken anywhere, except for some scrapes on his wrist and a patch at his right shoulder blade where his t-shirt had stuck to his skin. He didn't want to look like a baby soaking and peeling it off, so he manfully yanked at it, hoping he wasn't taking a huge chunk of his skin off his back. To his relief, the t-shirt came off barely stained, and there was no blood on his shirt at all. He really didn't want his father to see any blood.

The bruises on his ribs and legs were livid purple, still hot and swollen to the touch. They would take ages to fade, especially since he wasn't working out. Even a jog would help to kick up the circulation and start dissolving the bruises; he had to stop hiding in Merlin's cell and exercise a bit, keep fit. Prison was supposed to be the place to go to get ripped, after all. Maybe they had a gym somewhere around here. 

"Hey, there's no shampoo," he noted and turned around. Merlin was frozen mid-strip, half-stuck inside the top of his uniforms, staring at Arthur's naked flesh intently, with a hungry expression that was impossible to misinterpret.

In one panicked second Arthur's brain played back everything Merlin has said and done so far, putting this new spin on it. He had misread Merlin completely, from the minute they'd met. Merlin had lied when he'd said he didn't want anything from him. He hadn't pressed for payment upfront because he was biding his time, waiting for Arthur to start relying on him. He had dangled in front of Arthur this hope, the possibility that his time here didn't have to be one endless, degrading torture, gave him a taste of safety and companionship. Now it was going to be a lot harder to stay brave and proud than it was yesterday.

This was it, he wanted Arthur to repay him, it was going to happen now. Merlin didn't seem the type to enjoy using force, so he was going to ask nicely, give Arthur a choice. Arthur could accept. Really, that would be the smartest thing to do. Merlin had kept him safe so far, he wasn't cruel or bent on revenge, and he was undeniably attractive in that waifish, gawky way. It wasn't that great a price to pay, after all. Arthur could just nod, turn around and brace against the grimy tiles, bite down on his hand and let it happen. It would be over in minutes. It wouldn't be horrible - he was sure Merlin would be careful, even considerate. It could, in fact, be pretty good.

But even as he thought about it he knew he couldn't do it, not on his life, never. He was going to refuse, walk out and try his luck at surviving alone. It wasn't even about pride. As much as he needed an ally, it could never be someone who'd put a price like that on his friendship. Arthur couldn't trust a man with no honour, not with anything, wouldn't even be able to stand being around him.

Merlin met his eyes and jerked uncomfortably, managing to tangle a sleeve in the collar of his shirt and nearly strangle himself.

"What?" he asked. This attempt at nonchalance was so grating that Arthur decided it was time to force the issue. He'd love to get dressed first, but to scramble for clothes right now would make him look too skittish, weak.

"So this is why you left Mordred behind. You didn't want an audience for when you ask me to bend over," he said. "My answer's still no."

"Oh hell, you're at it again," moaned Merlin, rolling his eyes. "Do you really still think I'm weaving some elaborate plot against your virtue? Believe me, Arthur, I don't need to go to such stupid lengths to get laid around here."

"You want me. I saw you look at me," Arthur said bluntly, accusingly.

He wasn't quite sure what kind of response he was expecting, but it wasn't this shamed and horrified expression on Merlin's face. His white skin instantly paled even more, turning ashen.

"Yeah, fine!" Merlin yelled in indignation, even as his lips quivered helplessly. "You're naked and fit and I looked at you, all right? If we were in a gym shower in a secondary school I'm sure you and your homophobic footy mates would beat me up after class and you'd feel better. But we're not, so you'll just have to live with the horror of having been looked at by some fag, poor you!"

"Merlin, calm down," Arthur said, unpleasantly struck by the memory of that day back at school when Owen had caught him glancing at his arse in the showers. He'd been completely mortified when Owen had called him on that, and had yelled just like this himself to hide his embarrassment and fear.

Merlin grunted in frustration, ripped his shirt off and threw it on the dirty floor. His skin was so fair, flawless and almost glowing, with just a dusting of dark hair around his nipples. It suddenly seemed clear that he really hadn't planned to issue any ultimatums and demand sexual favours, and in that one guilty moment of eyeing his lean chest Arthur nearly regretted that.

"Well, can't really blame you, I guess," Arthur said with a shrug. "After all, I am so beautiful, you said it yourself."

"So bloody big-headed," huffed Merlin, turning pink with relief.

"I've made a mistake," said Arthur, because he did, and he owed the man an apology, and Merlin still looked a bit like a hurt puppy, which was heart-wrenching to see. "You've not given me any reason to think that of you. It was unfair."

"No, Arthur, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stared at you like a creep, it's the last thing you need right now."

"Whatever," Arthur said, more than ready to change the subject. "As I was saying, there's no shampoo."

"There's soap," said Merlin, wriggling out of the rest of his clothes. Naked, he didn't look at all gawky and awkward. Long-limbed, with straight angular shoulders and slim pale thighs, his cock hanging heavily between his legs, he was so...

Arthur turned on the shower and determinedly stuck his head under the spray. Of course, the water was ice cold, whatever he did with the taps. Naturally.

"You can't wash your hair with the soap, it leaves residue," he pointed out very reasonably, but Merlin still cackled behind his back, till the other shower started and Merlin's voice hitched from the cold. "What's so funny? I'm not even asking for a conditioner! I'm dealing with the situation, but seriously, nothing but soap? Are we supposed to shave with soap, too?" 

"Well, your father issued us all with jojoba moisturisers and wild grape shaving gels, but we ran out now," said Merlin, needlessly sarcastically. "Ask him for more of that next time you see him. And also some caviar."

The scratches on his wrist, where somebody stepped on it yesterday and ground his hand against the gravel, were red and puffy, mildly infected. He soaped them liberally, for the lack of anything better, finished showering as unhurriedly as he could, given that his teeth were already clattering from the chill, and attempted to dry off with his stinky tea towel.

Merlin was already dressed, shaving at the sink in front of a broken, murky mirror. 

"I got you clean uniforms," he said.

"I'm not convicted, I can wear my own clothes."

He knew his clothes weren't fresh by any stretch of imagination, but now when his own body smell wasn't interfering with his nose, his t-shirt positively reeked of stale sweat. He held his breath and pulled it on, shuddering a little with revulsion. He was determined to wear his own clothes through this whole ordeal. It was theoretically possible to be kept here indefinitely even without conviction. But in that case he was going to wear his own clothes till they rotted off his body. It was Abercrombie, so it was going to last for quite a while. 

"Um. You know you've bled through your jeans, right?"

He hadn't noticed it before. There was a dark stain at the middle seam, more on the inside, but it had seeped all the way through the thick denim. It wasn't much blood, and it was completely dry, but it was there.

He stared at it and couldn't breathe, literally couldn't push air out of his chest, choked with sharp, crushing humiliation. He could feel it again, vividly as if was still happening, like he was still spread out in the dust in the middle of the prison yard, held down and split open on somebody's cock. His face burned and his heart was jerking painfully somewhere near his throat, and he knew he wouldn't be able to just ride it out and get a hold of himself. He was going to faint, die or throw up. Any of that would be a relief.

"Arthur?" said Merlin, looking so genuinely concerned that Arthur wanted to punch him. "Are you all right? I don't think it's bad, it's probably just a small tear inside you, must have healed by now..." 

"Don't. Just. Don't."

It didn't even make sense to react this way. He wasn't ashamed of his bruises, and wasn't bothered by the scrape on his back. This was the same. It was exactly the same thing. Just an injury, like any other, nothing more. 

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he yelled at Merlin, trying to channel his agonizing panic into anger. "You just let me walk around like this!"

"I'm not your personal valet, you know," Merlin said cattily and ripped the jeans from his shaking hands. He whispered a string of hissing sounds, and his eyes misted over in gold again, and the stain was gone. Completely vanished, not a trace. 

"Thanks," Arthur muttered, and finished dressing. When he moved to the sinks, his face in the wrecked mirror was still beet-red, a little wild. But, somehow, just as irrational as the freak-out had been, he now felt better.

The cheap razor kept catching on his skin, and the swelling on his jaw wasn't making shaving any easier. Merlin watched him quietly, leaning against the wall nearby. Without the stubble, his hair curling wetly against his pale skin, he seemed even younger and prettier, heartbreakingly innocent. He looked like something pre-Raphaelites would draw: an angelic beauty with melancholy eyes, luminous and fragile, trapped against an odd, overcomplicated background. 

"Can you do something about this shiner?" Arthur asked. "I don't want to freak out my father."

"Maybe. I'm not that good at healing, but it's just blood under skin, right? I could try to shift it..."

"Yeah, no. On the other thought, you might end up shifting half of my face somewhere unexpected."

It was almost time. He surveyed his lopsided face in the mirror once again and styled his hair as much as he could - it was limp and unruly under his fingers, but he couldn't have really expected his first day of prison not to be a bad hair day. 

"Well," he said. "In case all of this has been settled and I'm walking out of here, I just want to say..."

He stumbled and realised that he was drawing a blank. That never failed to be unbearably frustrating. All those public speaking courses, debate club, advanced speech writing class - and he still sometimes choked up at the worst moment.  
   
"Yeah, nice to meet you too, I guess," Merlin smiled sunnily. "I was also going to say, hopefully you now see that not all magic people are insane and evil, but then again, uh. Probably not. We haven't really made the best impression. And I'm sorry I didn't get to you earlier, I could've stopped them, but I - most of the time I don't want to know what they're up to. To be honest, I've been head in the sand about a lot of things here. And it's not right."

"It's not, no. I don't think I'll be quite the same after this, either."

"You'll be okay, Arthur. You're strong, you'll get through it."

"Not that, not what they did. That was nothing. I meant - things I saw here. I didn't want to know, I never stopped to think what it's like for you. People like you. And Mordred - he's going to grow up in prison. That's wrong, it shouldn't be happening, no matter who or what he is. I don't know what I can do about it, but..."

"Me and Mordred are fine here, this is where we belong," said Merlin overly cheerfully. "But - yes. Thank you. Maybe someday something will change. Maybe you'll change it."

"Maybe."

They were so close that he could see his own reflection in Merlin's eyes, twin images of his face superimposed against the blue. He could just lean over - reach out just a little bit - and kiss Merlin on the mouth. For a moment the temptation was almost overwhelming. He let himself imagine sweeping his tongue over that lush lower lip and nipping it with his teeth, making Merlin's breath stutter sweetly. He was certain Merlin would let him, and pretty sure he wouldn't tell anyone. Nobody would ever know. Just one kiss goodbye, just in case they were never going to see each other again. Just one taste.

If he knew for certain he was getting out, or even if he could hope in earnest, he would have done it right then. He gave Merlin a manly pat on the shoulder and walked out, heading for the main gates.

They were plenty of inmates in the yard, most tapping their feet impatiently with plates at the ready. Arthur found himself wondering if the food vats were empty by now. He wasn't sure how many rations they got, and if the amount was adjusted every time a new prisoner arrived. He likely ended up eating someone's fair share, and it definitely wasn't Val or Muirden who were left hungry.

Maybe they just wanted fresh food, he told himself, different kind of goo. Maybe today was going to be mac-n-cheese day. Merlin would be happy.

A dozen men stood in the middle of the yard, right where they had him down yesterday. At least some of them were the same ones; maybe all of them, he didn't put much effort into memorising their faces. They leered at him as he walked past; he braced for catcalls, insults, an attack, but they stayed still and silent. Val was toying with a torn, dirty piece of cloth, and Arthur nearly tripped over his feet when he recognised it as his ripped up boxers.

He half-expected to start freaking out again, but looking into Val's grinning face gave him enough adrenaline and healthy rage to keep it together. He gave them all a casual nod and strolled past, feeling their eyes on his back like prickly claws.

Merlin had walked at his side all the way from the showers, but now he left him alone and headed toward the men.

"This is what we're going to do," he said, addressing the whole bunch at once. "We're going to let him talk to his father. And if they're taking him back, we're going to let him go."

"Now why would we do that, Merlin?" asked Val, twirling Arthur's boxers on his finger. Merlin refused to be demoralised by dirty underwear.

"Because I say so," he said in a very soft, patient voice. "And because he doesn't belong here. But mostly? Because I say so."

"But don't you see, we have a hostage here! It's an opportunity..."

"Val, no."

Val's face darkened, but he was already ducking his head down, hunching almost submissively. He gritted his teeth and stepped back, clutching the boxers in his fist. It looked ridiculous; he was twice Merlin's size, he could easily kill him with one good punch to the head. He could probably snap Merlin's slender long neck with one of his meaty hands.

Merlin stood his ground, lanky and skinny, with no tension or fear in any line of his body. He nodded at the men, as if thanking them for their attention, and moved to the edge of the yard, away from the gates. He wouldn't look at Arthur any more, not even a last sidewise glance.

The gates shuddered with the loud metal clang, and began sliding open. The long untended to gears groaned and screeched somewhere inside the concrete, and Arthur couldn't help wondering how long would it be till the gates would rust shut and refuse to open again. 

He couldn't help relishing the hope for all it was worth, either. The gates would open, and his father would be there, smiling and relieved, explaining how he made the whole unpleasant misunderstanding go away. Arthur would walk through the gates and leave this place and all the fear and filth behind, and go home. A long ride in father's car, with Mike the chauffeur chatting at him excitedly through the parting. A long, hot shower in his pristine bathroom - no, no, a fucking bubble bath. He'd take a bubble bath in the guest bathroom, the tub there was bigger. And then he'd wrap himself in his fluffy, freshly washed bathrobe, walk barefoot across the thick carpets and heated oakwood floors, and tumble into his bed naked, and the cotton sheets would be so sleek and soft he'd barely feel them on his skin. And then he'd sleep, knowing that nobody would come into his room in the middle of the night to drag him out of the bed and pin him to the floor. And then he'd put on his new grey suit, go to a restaurant and order caviar. On steak.

There were about three times as many men on the other side of the gates as there were when he was brought in. Father was out front, holding a machine gun, sporting a bulletproof vest over his dress shirt and suit trousers. It would be funny, if not for the look on his face. 

"Arthur," he gasped, lowering his weapon, and for a second it looked like his knees would buckle and he'd lose his footing.

"Oh, thank fuck," loudly whispered one of the men behind him. The soldiers still looked formidable, ready to strike, but the relief shining on their faces was bordering on unprofessional.

"Father, hello. What's all this, were you planning to storm the Facility?"

Uther let out a short shaky laugh.

"Just as well that we don't have to," he said. "This would've been the first ever attempt."

"I'm touched by your concern," Arthur meant for that to sound flippant, even funny, but his voice faltered in the middle and it came out completely wrong.

"You know I'd turn this place inside out if you weren't standing here now. How are you holding up?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Food could be better, but, yes, I'm fine," he remembered the bruise on his face and tapped at it before Father could ask. "I had a minor altercation. But we knew there would be some hostility, it was to be expected. I think we've established our boundaries. So, I'm fine now."

"I had no doubt you would be," said Uther vehemently. "You're brave, strong and resourceful, and they are nothing but cowards."

He wondered what Father would say if he told him the truth about what happened, and that the only reason he was still alive and fit to walk was that he was now officially a personal prison bitch of a goofy kid with enormous ears. "But that's okay, Father," he imagined himself saying. "I don't mind so much, because I rather fancy the pants off him." Surprisingly, the thought helped him keep his smile easy and effortless, instead of nauseating him with panic like he expected it to. 

"I take it you don't have good news for me," he said, to get it over with while he still felt he could take this blow like a man. 

"I'm sorry. Not yet."

Arthur nodded and bit hard into the inside of his cheek.  Now he wished he'd let himself cry this morning while nobody was there to see, maybe it would've taken the edge off. But he wasn't going to break down into hysterics in front of his father and a squad of soldiers. It was always a very slim hope.

"But I'm not going to give up, I will get you out, I swear. For now I'm going to try to transfer you into the other Facility. It's fully manned, you'll be safe there."

"You want to transfer me to the female prison?" Arthur asked, more confused than offended. "How? In drag?"

"Obviously, you'd be placed in a solitary unit. As you would be here, if this place was fully operational. We can make it happen, if we prove there is a cause to fear for your safety."

"I don't think I'm at the point where I want to be safe in a twenty square feet room. There's no telling how long - I'd really rather not. I need to clear my name, father, then we can put this all behind us. The tapes - has there been any new information?"

"The experts are baffled, they can't see..."

"Well, the tapes were clearly falsified with magic. Have they been checked by... relevant experts?"

"What do you mean?" asked Uther cautiously. It wasn't the best conversation to have in front of all the soldiers, clearly, but Arthur couldn't stop half way.

"Don't we have someone working for us? Someone with the skill set?"

"Are you asking if I have a pet sorcerer stashed somewhere? Arthur, that's preposterous. All known warlocks are right here. Legal and ethical questions aside, they are far too dangerous and unstable to be trusted. I told you that thousands of times, and I think recent events should have proven this to you once more."

"I'm sorry, I just thought... I got confused. Today I saw a man blast a hole through a concrete wall without breaking a sweat. It made me wonder what's keeping them from dismantling the fence and taking off - I assumed we had countermeasures in place."

"We do. Guns. And they know they have nowhere else to go if they run. This is currently the safest place for the likes of them."

He nodded, chastised, but stormy expression on father's face was already melting into a soft, concerned frown.

"We don't need any help from the enemy, Arthur. We'll beat this with our own power, I promise."

"Of course. Oh, but just so I know what I'm dealing with here, what can you tell me about an inmate called Merlin? I don't know his last name."

"Nobody does," said Uther, after a short pause. He looked uneasy. Or possibly just surprised. Arthur had always found it difficult to read his father's moods, and wasn't getting any better at it with age. "Why do you ask? Is he still alive?"

"Yes, I know, shocking, I have no idea how he managed that, either. He doesn't seem to have a shred of sense or self-preservation instinct."

"No. What he has is a psychiatric disorder."

"That's baseline here, isn't it?" Arthur said, careful not to show impatience. "What's his particular malfunction?"

"I've suspected learning disability, perhaps developmental retardation. He's got that look about him. But his IQ tested normal. That doesn't mean he's mentally healthy, of course. Edwin Muirden's college IQ tests, for example, place him in the exceptionally gifted band. It's important to keep that in mind."

"Yes, father, I think I already know that Merlin isn't an evil genius. What's his diagnosis?"

"Ungraded retrograde amnesia compounded by dissociative fugue state. His mind is a blank on all things prior to his arrest. All we have on him is his first name."

"That must've been some exciting arrest, to wipe out his memory like that," said Arthur, recalling Merlin's vague words about 'circumstances'.

"There's nothing special in the reports. He hadn't resisted. He was found wandering around in the fields, already confused. Gaius thought his condition had started prior to that, as a result of magic-induced brain damage. It's not that uncommon - magic does these things to them, more often than not. It's a part of what they are. Sanity is the price they pay gladly, if they think it can buy them more power."

"But while he was here, did he..."

"Arthur, I understand your interest in those that surround you here. This is a difficult situation, and you feel isolated. But you can't make any allies here, and you definitely shouldn't make more enemies than we already have. Just leave them be. They are mentally disturbed criminals, infused with power that twists and erodes their minds the way no drug does. You can't trust them and you can't even truly communicate with them. You should know that."

"Of course. I know."

The empty vats had been wheeled out by now, and the new ones were dropped in. The inmates formed an orderly line, helpfully passing filled plates around. They seemed like such an amicable bunch when they just interacted among themselves and didn't have a Pendragon to play with.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Arthur said. "I better go get some of that delicious yuck. Supper might be not the most important meal of the day, but around here it's definitely the least mouldy one."

"Yes, tomorrow. Just stay calm, you're doing great, Arthur. I have every faith in you."

When the gates slammed shut it was, despite everything, something of a weight off his shoulders. Now he knew he was most likely stuck here for good while, and he could stop hoping for a swift rescue and start adjusting to this life.

He had to turn around and face the inmates, and walk back to the cell block past them, just like he tried to yesterday. But before he could muster enough resolve to do it Merlin was right there, his long-fingered hand resting on the back of Arthur's neck. It was the first time Merlin had touched him like that, skin to skin, calmly and possessively. It should have been invasive, annoying, but it felt good. Soothing.

"Let's go inside," Merlin said.

Arthur let him lead and steer him like a lost child, or a kitten carried around by the scruff of his neck. By the time they were climbing the stairs he recovered enough to feel shame and indignation. He jerked his shoulders to dislodge Merlin's hand, and the man immediately threw his arms up, palms outward in a placating gesture, like Arthur really was a child traumatised by bad touching.

"We talked about you," said Arthur, in the interests of fair play and full disclosure. Merlin winced.

"Yeah, what did he say," he muttered weakly.

"Father told me about your, eh," Arthur waved his hand near his temple. "Mental affliction. Dissociative fugue, right? Sounds nasty. Do you still have that?"

"Oh, that, yes, I do," said Merlin, nodding gravely, his eyes wide open and extremely guileless. That did make him look kind of retarded, Arthur could see Uther's point on that one. "That fugue, it's a real bummer."

"So you don't remember anything before prison?"

"Nope. Nothing."

"Except for making fake twenties and buying things in the shops with them."

"Except for that, yes!" said Merlin, not missing a beat and opening his eyes even wider. "Isn't it strange how the mind works? Mysterious even!"

"Here are two things that I don't understand," Arthur said. "One - why are you lying to me? We're both already stuck in here, what is it you think you need to hide?"

Merlin's mouth briefly twisted - for a moment he looked ashamed, almost pained. He let the innocent look fall off his face and stared at Arthur challengingly. 

"You'll be out eventually," he said. "Come on, you must know the laws. Your father probably read you his work files for bedtime stories. What do you think I need to hide?"

And then Arthur understood, and as much as it galled to be mistrusted and lied to he couldn't really blame him. He'd probably have done exactly the same, if he was guilty. Not that he would've had an opportunity to. Everyone knew who he was: he had accompanied his father at every function for years, and used to come to the court hearings. He was the witness for the prosecution at one of them, not that long ago. When the police saw the tapes they'd recognised him straight away and came to his home to drag him out of bed only a few hours after the murders. He would guess that whoever framed him had been counting on that.

But if it had all been different, and if he was guilty, that's what he would do, too. He'd forget his last name and made sure this madness and shame ended with him, and never touched his family.

"Bah," he said. "I think you're just trying to be interesting."

Merlin rolled his eyes at him, trying to look annoyed, but obviously relieved. He was smiling again, a huge grin that seemed bigger than his thin face, that crinkled his eyes and gave him soft dimples. Arthur had to figure out how to make him smile like this more often.

"And the second thing," he said. "How did an idiot like you manage to score normal on IQ test? You faked that too, didn't you?"

"Arthur, think about it logically. Wouldn't I need to be really smart to be able to fool an intelligence test?" Merlin asked, blinking at him earnestly. 

"With you, Merlin, who knows."

They rounded last corner to their cells and stopped dead in their tracks.

"To answer your question, Merlin is indeed quite intelligent," said Muirden. He was in their cell, sitting on their bed. Mordred also sat on the edge of the bunk, very still; there was more than an arm's reach distance between them, but that didn't make Arthur feel any better. "What he lacks in is wisdom."

"Oh great," said Merlin, looking completely unconcerned, if mildly peeved. "An intervention."

"No, it's only me, with a bit of a friendly advice. Mordred let me wait here so we could have a talk away from the prying ears. I think you know what I'm here to say."

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Edwin," said Merlin. He walked into the cell, not showing any intention of freaking out or starting a warlock face-off. Arthur followed him and, to salvage some dignity after all the trailing after Merlin he'd done in last twenty four hours, grabbed their only chair and sprawled in it.

"No, Merlin, you don't. I still understand you very well. I know you think you're being noble. But given your history, it looks like weakness."

"Weakness," said Merlin, deadpan. Muirden sighed and shook his head.

"You've claimed the boy, and it's no more than your due, of course. But you're not handling this right, and you clearly haven't thought it through. What is your take on what's going on and why is he here?"

"Somebody framed him."

"Of course. He's empty, it's very obvious. Not a spark of a talent. Move on from that."

Merlin chewed at his lower lip, thinking. Arthur didn't like him taking cues form Muirden, but he felt too out of his depth to do anything about it yet.

"It's not about Arthur, it's about Uther," Merlin said. "Revenge?"

"Yes, it may be as simple as that. But let's assume our mystery friend is actually smart. What are they trying to gain?"

"Leverage," Merlin nodded certainly. "If Uther breaks the law for his son, he'd be vulnerable. They could blackmail him."

"Well, that failed. Daddy doesn't love poor Arthur all that much, it seems. Now, after a bit of media storm when his competence would be briefly called into question, he'll only be seen as a stalwart tragic figure, and he'll be unstoppable. He knows how to milk these things, he's gotten a lot of mileage out of his dead wife back in the day. What's the fallback plan?"

Arthur dug his fingers into the edge of the chair and took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. It would feel amazing to lunge forward and slam his fist into Muirden's ruined face, mangle it even more and make him eat his words. But he knew what Muirden was capable of. When he'd fight him, which was probably inevitable, Arthur wanted the element of surprise. And he definitely didn't want Merlin and Mordred this close, so close they could both be incinerated by the first spell Muirden cast.

"I don't know," mumbled Merlin. "Are they smart enough for fallbacks?"

"Let's say they are. And let's say they pay attention to our plight and they don't like what you've done with the place."

"What? Now it's suddenly about me?" 

"Oh, I don't know that for sure. But I know that there are people out there who are centuries old, whose power and foresight neither of us can even begin to comprehend. Your actions had to have attracted their attention. They might not support your decisions, you know not everyone in here does. They might want to undermine you. And this could be their first move." 

"No, that's - Edwin, that's pretty unlikely. It's been over a year, why would they have waited?"

"Quite the opposite, this is the perfect timing. You don't know this, because you've distanced yourself from your own people. And they are getting bored and restless. The shock has worn off, the old fears are forgotten. Hardly anyone remembers how bad the past was, but they all think that the present could be so much better. And now, on top of that, they are feeling betrayed."

"Why? Because I took Arthur from them?"

"No, Merlin. Because you're acting as this boy's bodyguard, and that - no, listen to me, Merlin - that makes you look like Pendragon's puppet. Last time was not without flair, granted, but it was still controversial at best. This time sets a pattern, and it isn't a flattering one. If a Pendragon can once again walk among these walls, safe and smug, while we watch helplessly, then things haven't really changed at all. "

"Just get to the point, Edwin, please, say what you want to say and leave," said Merlin tiredly. Muirden stood up and meticulously straightened the sleeves of his labcoat.

"There will be a new riot if you carry on like this," he said. "It's that simple. There will be blood again. I don't think you want that."

"I'm not letting anyone touch him."  

"Nobody disputes your claim, you can have him. But you need to use him. He can't be your friend, not like Mordred, or Charlie, or the others, and it's a grave insult to everyone that you treat him like this. You can cherish and spoil him, if you like, he's quite a prize, but use him. Let people know that Pendragon's first-born is nothing but your toy, and it'll satisfy everyone's need for justice. People will see that you're still on our side, and we'll all stay safe. You know I'm right, Merlin."

He walked out unhurriedly. Merlin slumped against the wall and let out a sigh that was almost a groan.

"Why do I even still talk to him," he muttered. 

"He's not very nice, but he's clever," said Mordred. He smirked at Arthur, gathered his toys and a pillow into his arms, jumped off the bed and headed to the other cell. He halted in the doorway, gave them a bow and intoned gravely: "Brigit bless this coupling."

"Gross, Mordred!" squeaked Merlin, turning bright red. The little shit just giggled and ran out.

"Okaaay," said Arthur. "That was... disturbing."

"Yeah, I know, well - Mordred's a druid. They have, like, fertility festivals, it's a different culture."

"Not that. Although that too, don't get me wrong. But you. I think you really are the prison overlord!"

"I'm not!" yelled Merlin, flapping his arms in agitation. "I'm just me!"

"What did Muirden mean about your actions attracting attention? What did you do?"

"Arthur, no, don't listen to him! Seriously, don't listen to anything Edwin says, he messes with people - I thought you knew that! You told me yourself, that's what he does!"

"You said something about - it's been over a year. And he said..."

Arthur turned the conversation around in his head, trying to put together everything he's heard and seen here so far. 

"Merlin," he said. "Was it you? Did you start the riot?"

"No!"

"You were here at the time. It makes sense, with the way they all treat you. Look, clearly you didn't mean for all that to happen, you're - well, you're you. You couldn't have. I guess you just did something really stupid and it all got out of control."

Merlin groaned, collapsed on the bed and buried his head in his arms.

"Hey, we all make bad decisions from time to time," Arthur said soothingly, because it looked like Merlin was about to have a full-on emo-fest. "Some of us more than others, granted. But, you know, even me, there are things I'm not proud of. There was a girl..."

"Of course there was," laughed Merlin bitterly, still hiding his face. "I don't want to hear about your conquests right now, all right?"

"Oh, sorry, what was I thinking? I guess you can't really be seen having heart-to-hearts with your fun-sized Pendragon toy, can you now."

"Wow," said Merlin, lifting his arms to give him a murderous glare. "Does everyone in your family get special training on how to be a prick? Or is it all just pure genetics?"

"Whatever," said Arthur. "What are you going to do?"

Muirden had to be working his own angle, of course, trying to unsettle Merlin, use whatever internal rifts existed between the warlocks to play in his favour. But it didn't mean his words weren't worth considering. All Arthur's experience and studies told him that no matter how much power a man had it was always, to a certain extent, an illusion, something borrowed. It depended completely on others letting him have and keep that power. Whether they did it because the leader was trusted or because he was feared, the bottom line was the same. As soon as a man of power stopped playing by the rules, whatever they were, he'd be finished.

As he was transported to the Facility, there was a short moment mid-drive when they'd nearly lost it. Father had stopped the van, unlocked Arthur's restraints, shoved at him a thick wad of cash and started talking about making for Dover. It was understandable, and Arthur had been almost scared enough to take the money and run. But they both knew that Uther would never recover from breaking the very laws he helped institute. What had been once his personal crusade was now bigger than him, woven into the fabric of the government, unstoppable and undeniable - just the way Uther had wanted it, the way it had to be to work - and now someone had turned all that work against them. But they had to keep playing by the rules, if Uther was to stay in power and in the position to fix this, to save Arthur and punish their enemy. If Arthur had let him break the law they'd both be criminals now, powerless, with no one to help them.

Merlin's inexplicable power over the inmates could be gone in a blink of an eye, too. Arthur didn't know yet what the laws of this place were and how it all worked, but what Muirden said did make sense. If they saw Merlin going soft on a Pendragon, of all people, they wouldn't trust or fear him anymore. They'd turn on him and rip him apart.

He tried to think about his response, what he should do if Merlin would choose to follow Muirden's advise and, as he put it, use him, let the others see that. There were a lot of things to consider. Pride, survival - probably for both of them - and the little matter of Merlin probably being able to overpower him with magic anyway.

Merlin's neck and wrists looked striking from this angle; slender, strong, lovely. And Arthur was going stop ogling any minute now, and he was not going to factor Merlin's bone structure in any of his decisions.

"I'm going to think," said Merlin miserably. "And then I'm going to sleep. Could you just - try to not talk for a while? I'm seriously not in the mood for any more of your crap."

Arthur rolled his eyes, climbed on the top bunk and stretched out, trying to get comfortable. He needed to get used to sleeping on those horrid mattresses. 

Merlin's resolve to brood in silence lasted about three minutes.

"I did kind of make a lot of stupid decisions in my life," he said tragically. 

"I guess you're lucky that you have that amnesia and officially can't remember about ninety percent of those."

Merlin chuckled a little. "Well, there is that, yeah," he said. "But there is one in particular that I regret right now."

"Is it about the riot?"

"I told you I didn't start that."

"Fine, fine. What then?"

"More like who. It's like that thing you're not proud of, with that girl."

"Yeah, I really doubt it's anything like that."

"Why, because your thing was so special that nobody else can possibly relate?"

"Don't be a bitch, Merlin, just tell the damn story."

"All right. There was a guy that I kind of - I thought I was in love with," said Merlin and held a long dramatic pause.

"If that's your tragic secret, then it's, well, tragic in its lameness. You've been in prison since you were what, sixteen? I should hope for your sake that there was at least one guy at some point."

"Since I was eighteen, I think. But that's not it."

He was silent for so long that after a while Arthur itched to climb down and kick him.

"The suspense, it's failing to kill me," he said. "Are you asleep? Did you bore yourself to sleep with your own breakup story?"

"No, my breakup story is really exciting. It has explosions. And you don't get to hear it. What I'm saying is, once emotions are involved, good or bad, it's hard to tell who you can trust. Maybe I'm just being paranoid because I got hurt, you know? I'm just - I might be about to make a mistake."

"Yeah, I have no idea what you're on about. But - for what it's worth, you can trust me. I owe you one."

"Do you trust me, Arthur?"

"Yes," he said easily. "I mean. I know you're hiding something, and you lie an awful lot. Badly. And I know I can hardly trust you to make the right call, or keep us all alive. And I know some choices are – well, sometimes we're left with shit choices, all right. My father didn't want to put me in here, you know, but he had to. I know you also might have to make choices. But, generally speaking? Yes, I trust you."

Merlin didn't say anything to that. Arthur peeked down from his bunk, and Merlin pulled a weird face at him, not quite a smile and not quite a grimace. It looked like he was trying to hide what his face was actually doing at the time.

"You know what's the worst thing about the prison, Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, I do, in fact. Bit of an expert here. That would be, oh let's see, yes: it being a prison."

"Fair point. But I was talking about boredom. It's going to be a problem."

"You get used to it. Sleep a lot, try not to think too much, and eventually you won't care any more."

"You're crap at cheering a person up, you know that? Actually, is there something you're good at? I'm genuinely curious."

"Magic," said Merlin matter-of-factly. "I'm pretty good at that. In fact, I just might be the greatest sorcerer currently alive."


	4. Fugue-1

  
He was Merlin, the greatest sorcerer who had ever lived. He couldn't remember how old he was, or how long had he been living in this place, and he didn't know how long he would stay here. None of that mattered. He knew with bone-deep conviction, without ever having to think about it, that he would be happy and safe wherever he went - the universe would see to that. From his place of power, hidden and secure, he could hear and feel everything that was happening in his domain, and even with his eyes closed he saw all, down to the last mote of dust swirling in the slanted rays of early morning sunlight. And everything, even the sunlight itself, was quick and eager to bow to his will, to do his bidding, to come play with him. 

He spread his fingers and pulled the sunlight in, in, thread by thread. It went, smooth and slow like melted chocolate. It wrapped around his skin, clinging tight, gently warm and almost invisible. Only he already knew how much power was there, in this smooth coil threaded around his palm. He could feel the tiny vibrations deep inside the glow, he could let them seep into his skin, flow through him, and if he opened his eyes - really opened his eyes, all the way, not just lifted his eyelids but really let himself look...

"What are you doing?" said his mother. He shook the tangled skein of light off his fingers and it singed tender skin in between like an angry bite, upset that the game was cut short. He swallowed down tears of pain and fisted his hand so she wouldn't see the red marks.

"Nothing," he said. "Playing."

She bent down, pulled him from under the table and then he was in her arms, curled against her warmth, soothed by familiar heartbeat.

"Don't do that," she said. "You know you're not supposed to."

And then he really started to cry, even though his hand didn't hurt any more.

Mum held him close and carried him around the room, and she kept talking, more to herself because he wasn't listening, consumed by a sudden wave of abject misery.

"They say if you don't encourage it it might go away, and I have to try, baby, I have to. I just want you to be safe. That's all I want. I wish I knew what's the right thing to do, honey. I just have to hope that everything will be all right. I promise everything will be all right."

Her voice was calming and soft, always, even when she was crying right along with him. He pressed his cheek against her pale blue bathrobe - he didn't remember her face from back then, just that shade and the rough pile of terrycloth against his skin - and slept. 

That was his first memory. Obviously, he was aware long before that, and back then he must have remembered at least some of the things that happened previously. But now it seemed like his mind only had awakened on that morning, and everything before then would forever be out of his reach. 

He would cling to that feeling later, when it would be useful for faking brain damage and memory loss. 

It first clicked for him when he was about six years old. He was watching his Saturday morning cartoons. He'd waited for those cartoons all week, counting down days, and then he woke up too early on Saturday morning and had to count down hours, and then finally minutes, resisting the temptation to give the clock hands a little push. He'd learned his lesson last month when he pushed too hard and missed the cartoons altogether. 

He was watching, sprawled on the floor, sipping his milk, saving the second half of his biscuit for the closing credits. It wasn't a sudden revelation, more like a cold uneasy feeling that must have been in his gut for a while and now was getting harder and harder to ignore. He watched his heroes claim another victory as the villain was arrested once again and now cursed them through the barred window of the police car, and suddenly he knew.

If he were in the cartoon, like he sometimes daydreamed about, he wouldn't be Alec, the handsome and brave team captain. He wouldn't be Selma. Not that he wanted to be a girl, but she was really cool and got to hug Alec at least twice an episode. He wouldn't even be Bobby, the clumsy funny sidekick. 

No, if he were in the cartoon, he'd be the gross evil witch behind the bars.

He ran into the kitchen, into the warm thick smells of cooking, threw his arms around Mum's legs and buried his face in her apron. 

"Did something scary happen in your cartoon?" she asked. He nodded fiercely against her hip and she pushed the bubbling pan off the hob, hugged him and petted his hair.

But the dreadful feeling didn't melt away like it always did when he was in her arms. It was still there, ugly and desperate, growing stronger.

"Mum," he said. "If they find out about me, will I go to prison?"

"No," she said firmly. Her arm tightened across his shoulders till it was hard to breathe, but he didn't mind. "Don't ever think that. No. Only bad people go to prison. Only those who did something bad. Do you understand?"

He sighed in relief and pulled away. 

"Besides, no one will ever find out. This is our secret, isn't that right? Only you and me will ever know."

"Right," he agreed. "It's just, in the cartoons the witches are always evil."

"Well, you're not. Don't worry. You won't go to prison. It will never come to that."

It came to that when he was twelve, only back then he didn't quite understand what was happening.

"What's psychological evaluation?" he asked as soon as he was through the door. He hadn't dared to ask anyone at school.

Mum was watching news and reading newspapers. There was a thick stack of newspapers on the couch, more than they ever got. When she looked up at him her face was a little scary, with little wrinkles at her mouth and between her eyebrows. That was the face she had when he was in serious trouble, and he felt his legs go weak. It didn't help any that he felt like he was in trouble all day, which didn't make any sense. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Mr Benton?" she asked unexpectedly gently.

"Y - yes. The principal said he was going for psychological evaluation. Because he's a warlock. She wouldn't tell us when he's going to be back. And Susie said Mr Benton will be declared unfit to work with the children and won't be our teacher any more. Her dad said that. Mum, is that true?"

"It's possible," she said. The newspaper in her hands was shaking, making a rustling sound, and she put it down. "Now, this is very important, did you ever tell Mr Benton about you?"

"No," he said. It was the truth, but it still felt like lying, because he wanted to tell. For so long, ever since he'd known about Mr Benton, he wanted to tell him everything. Every day he lingered after class, asking stupid questions about homework, and the confession danced right on the tip of his tongue. He'd run out of things to say and fidget in front of the teacher's desk for endless minutes, and Mr Benton would just smile at him, mildly, patiently. Like he already could guess.

The need to tell was enormous. He and his secret were growing together, and it was getting uncomfortably huge, itching under his skin. He wanted to share it with someone who knew what it was like. Just with one person who was his kin. 

"But even if I had, he'd never tell anyone," he said meekly. "He'd keep the secret."

"I'm sure he would," said Mum. "We're moving. Start packing your things, please."

He remembered the time when they seemed to move at the drop of a hat, easily and swiftly. They'd pile all their stuff in the boxes, and shove the boxes in the back of a rental car, and they'd be away, driving down narrow country lanes, and he'd stare out into the unfamiliar lands through the back window and think about the new life that was waiting for them, new amazing friends he'd make, new room to make his own, new places to explore. 

But with every year it was getting harder and harder, as if the older they got the more they were prone to sprouting invisible roots to tie them to any place where they lingered. They had months of rent left on their house, Mum couldn't find a new job, and there was something or other to organise about his school transfer that was going to take ages. He'd already said goodbye to all his friends. They hugged and cried a bit, and made their promises, and he was still here, hanging around like a restless spirit. Everybody was unbearably nice to him, very polite and very distant, clearly not seeing a point of being friends with someone who wasn't going to be around much longer. He was stuck in the limbo, bored and lonely. He couldn't even really be angry at Mum for making them move, because, in the end, even thought she'd never say it outright, all of it was his fault. 

Still, he was angry at her. There wasn't anyone else for him to be angry at. He would barely speak to her, and when she tried to have a conversation he'd only snap at her till she gave up. He avidly fantasised about running away, going to the sea or joining the circus, or becoming the youngest criminal mastermind in history. Then - he thought with vicious satisfaction - then she would be sorry. 

Mr Benton never came back. Some children talked about that, but he wouldn't listen.

The moving day was less than a week before his birthday, and that was the last straw.

"I'd only have been there for days, I wouldn't have any friends, nobody would come to my party!" he yelled. "Why can't we stay here just for a bit longer? Why do you have to ruin my birthday?"

"Yes, clearly, I'm doing all this to ruin your party," she said, pushing boxes at him. "Come on, we have a long drive ahead of us."

The car was awful, smelly and rickety, and every part of it made a different kind of weird noise. After three hours of tortuously slow and shaky drive he didn't so much fall asleep as passed out from sheer exhaustion on the lumpy back seat, boxes poking him everywhere. 

When he woke up, they were still moving. It was pitch dark, maybe the middle of the night. The radio was droning on in the most boring voices imaginable, and he didn't know how Mum stayed awake through that. He was going to climb into the front seat and find a music station for her, but the words "mandatory psychological evaluation" caught his attention, and he stayed where he was, quiet and listening. 

It was supposed to be some sort of debate, only nobody was really arguing. All the boring-voice people were in perfect agreement about this. 

"Maybe I should do it," he said. Mum's hand on the wheel jumped slightly - she must have thought he was still asleep.

"No," she said.

"But it's the law. And I'm not unstable or anything. They said they would only isolate the ones who pose a threat."

"I'm not taking that risk. I'm not letting anyone decide if my child is fit for society. Nobody gets to do that."

Her fingers were white-pale where they were gripping the steering wheel. Her dark nail polish started chipping days ago, and she hadn't fixed it yet. Now, with her hair lank and messy and her skin sallow with fatigue, she looked like a druggie, almost embarrassing to be seen with.

"But if I don't go for this evaluation, and someone finds out about me, you'll go to prison," he said, cringing as the words left his mouth. Even saying that was unbearable. An image of his mother in prison uniform, led by the guards into a barred cell, flooded his mind and he bit into the inside of his cheek to stop a wave of nausea.

"That's really the least of our worries," she said and smiled at him in the rear view mirror. "Besides, nobody will ever find out."

Nobody bothered him at the new school. The kids didn't pick on him, didn't want to get to know him. The teachers weren't interested in him, since he didn't make any trouble, didn't struggle with his classes and didn't excel at anything. He day-dreamt through school hours, wandered around town till dark, ate dinner with his mum, washed the dishes and sat in front of the TV with an open book in his lap, not paying any attention to either. She asked him about his day, and he answered in detached monotone. It's fine, Mum, everything is fine. 

This was the whole point of it, after all. Becoming invisible, constantly severing all ties, slipping away as soon as anyone got close, so nobody would ever know. This was the only way he could live - on the edges of people's vision, unnoticed, inconsequential, hidden. 

He could feel something growing in his mind, like a tooth cavity you couldn't see but couldn't stop poking with your tongue either. He knew if he really let himself think about it - if he really dared to ask himself what was the point of living like this all his whole life, for months and years, forever and ever - there'd be no turning back. He'd never be the same again.

He hadn't done any magic since they moved. Not a single thing. Not even something stupid like heating his bath water or cooling his tea, polishing his shoes or getting a book from the shelf that was out of reach. He did all his chores by hand, with clumsy and slow fingers, and listened to the restless hum of magic inside, waiting for it to rebel and come to a breaking point. He wondered if it would convulse in hunger and hurt, and lash out, or would it just curl in on itself and fester, and wither quietly. 

One night Mum sat next to him, put her arm around him and pulled his head onto her shoulder. He wanted to bristle - he was far too old for cuddles - but in the end he couldn't, and let himself melt into it, feeling the warmth of her body like a song resonating through his blood, like he always had. 

"I guess the worst part for you," she said, "Is that you can't talk to anybody who knows what it's like. I can't even imagine what it's like for you. You're my child, and we're a world apart. I wish I could... just... understand."

"It's okay, Mum," he said, meaning it this time, and pressed his forehead against ticklish curls of her hair. 

"I've never even heard of it happening like this. It's not supposed to happen until puberty, or even much later, and then it's supposed to be uncontrollable and violent. Telekinesis, pyrokenesis, disturbing visions. And it's terrifying when it happens, people go mad with it. And you - you were just there, in your crib, smiling like an angel, floating your toys around. Making your own toys from nothing. You were so at peace with it all. So happy."

They never spoke about this, just like they never spoke about his father. He held his breath, afraid to break up the moment. 

"I waited for the Old Religion to come for you, you know," she said, her fingers tracing familiar patterns through his scalp, ticklish and comforting. "They were already banned by then, but I thought they still would try to take you in, because you were so special. Worth any risk. I kept wondering what I should do. But they never came."

"You'd give me to them?" he asked, almost soundlessly, his throat too tight to let his voice through.

"Of course not. But I thought - you were a baby, of course they wouldn't separate us, they'd let me come with you. And you'd be with your people. We'd live like criminals, but..."

"You're my people."

She giggled and kissed his temple. He let his book drop on the floor and curled into a ball against her side. It was probably like that before he was born: huddled up in soft warmth, listening to her heartbeat, soaking up boundless affection that poured off her in steady, calm waves. He used to be able to sense her so much better when he was little. The feeling was growing weaker the older he got, getting dull and dimmed like everything else in his life. 

"What used to happen to the people they took?" he asked.

"Well, there were stories. They were a cult, after all. But after they were banned a lot of the disciples came back home. Like your teacher, Mt Benton, do you remember him? His magic manifested when he was fifteen, they came for him, and he lived in the temple for eight years. It didn't sound that bad, really. Sort of like a monastery, but instead of prayers they were teaching him to control his power. When the temple shut down and the priests went on the run he went to college and - well, the rest you know."

He knew the rest up to the psychological evaluation part, but he didn't want to talk about that right now.

"Do you know if someone ever refused to go to the temple?"

"I heard about that. The priests wouldn't insist, apparently, they'd just leave." 

"What happened then? I mean, before."

"Same as now, really. Mental institution. Medicated till they aren't a danger to themselves and others."

"Do you think something will change when, you know, the puberty stuff happens? Do you think I might be a danger?"

She didn't tense up at all, just laughed softly and shook her head.

"No. If there is one thing I know about you - one thing that will never change - it's that you have an amazing heart. This is one thing in our lives I never had to worry about. I know that you were given this great gift because you can be trusted with it. When the time comes, you'll know what to do with all this power."

"I wish I had your faith in me," he grumbled. 

"You should. I know you have a great destiny. I just need to keep you safe till you can claim it."

He slept so well that night, wrapped in a cloud of warm, silly dreams. But in the morning the reality started seeping in again, and on his way home from school he was deflated, dragging his feet like an old man. He wanted to believe in this great destiny, and he wanted to believe that his heart and his brains were somewhat above average, but he was old enough to know that was all just mum talk. Every mum thinks her kids are the best in the world. Even the mothers of murderers must still love their kids and somehow make the excuses for them.

A few boys from his year were standing by the edge of the park, looming over a primary school kid. He was backed against the fence, pale, fidgety, desperately trying to keep a brave face on. They weren't doing anything to him yet, but it was clearly not a friendly conversation.

Even their mothers must have thought their thug sons were just little angels, Merlin thought morosely, as he turned off his usual course and crossed the road, heading toward them. That's mothers for you. Can't rely on their judgement.

"Hey," he said and tapped the tallest one on the shoulder, and only then he remembered that he was supposed to stay out of trouble. That his life and his mother's freedom literally depended on him staying out of trouble. This just showed how much he really could be trusted with anything. 

They turned around and stared at him. They were probably trying for menacing, but ended up looking extremely dumb, like a litter of bulldog pups.

"That's enough, you've had your fun. Now let him go," he told them.

"Hey, it's the new guy," said the tall boy. "New guy thinks he's so tough. He thinks he's got the bollocks of steel."

"Yeah, what am I thinking, messing with the guys who gang up to beat up a nine-year-old?"

The little kid finally found the courage to move and tore down the street, his school bag flapping against his back. Someone made a half-hearted attempt to grab him, but they were more interested in Merlin now. Two of them stepped around him and crowded close, trying to back him into that same spot by the fence they had the kid pinned at. He didn't move. It had been years since he'd fought, not counting friendly wrestling and tussling during games. A rational part of him knew that now, when they were almost adults, fistfights were going to be nasty and hurt a whole lot more, but he couldn't feel even a tingle of anxiety. Compared to the actual dangers of his normal life, this didn't seem serious. It didn't even seem real.

A completely irrational part of him wanted this. Something simple and physical, unrestricted by rules of sports and codes of conduct, something dirty and primal to take him out of himself for one bright moment. It wanted to hurt and to bleed, and to hurt someone else, make them scream in pain, make them pay for everything. 

"All right, how about I beat the snot out of you one-on-one then," suggested the tall boy sweetly and threw a punch at him right away.

And like it often did, when something happened before his brain could react, his magic took over. He's seen it a million times already - when he'd knock a glass off the table and it would freeze mid-fall, a splatter of water glistening in the air, waiting for the wave of his hand. Or he'd trip badly, and would be propelling towards the pavement head-first, and suddenly his fall would turn into a slow, smooth sinking glide till he could rearrange his limbs and trade concussion for a skinned knee. The boy's clenched fist was flying at his chest, slowly and predictably. He moved sideways, pushed his forearm down to deflect the blow and, to his own surprise, socked the boy on the jaw.

His knuckles stung sharply; the boy's teeth audibly clanked together in his mouth. His eyes lost focus for a moment, and Merlin nearly dove in to catch him should he fall. But then everything came back to normal, the time snapped back into the usual flow, and the boy didn't look really hurt. In fact, he was smiling.

"Well look at you," he said and launched himself at Merlin like a WWF wrestler.

An eternity of mad scrambling and face-pushing later they lay on the damp grass in a sweaty, breathless heap. All energy was spent to the last drop, leaving limbs heavy and wobbly, limp like over-boiled noodles. Neither of them could lift an arm, but they both kept trying, uselessly pushing and pulling at each other, twisted up together in a very uncomfortable and rather painful way.

"All right there, Will?" asked one of the other boys, smirking. To their credit they didn't interfere at all, keeping the fight fair.

"New guy's tougher than he looks," Will panted somewhere near Merlin's armpit. "Truce?"

Merlin nodded, immensely relieved, and they slowly pulled themselves apart and to their feet. He didn't actually feel better, but he was pleasantly numb, like Will's punches had knocked out all the demons that had been chewing at his insides. Merlin stretched, mentally cataloguing the bruises. His elbow felt like it was scraped raw and bleeding on his school shirt, but he could do the laundry before mum got home. She'd never know.

"You're all right," said Will magnanimously and extended his chapped hand. "I'm Will. Friends?"

"I don't have friends who pick on little kids," Merlin said haughtily. A small voice on the back of his mind reminded him that he didn't have any friends, and whined about beggars and choosers, but it wasn't that hard to ignore.

"That little kid, for your information, terrorises the whole of St Mary's Primary," said Will, glowering. 

"Yeah, my sister asked me to sort him out," nodded another boy.

"Well, all right then, I guess," said Merlin and took Will's hand. Will's palm was dirty and still sweaty from their grappling, but so was his. "I'm Merlin."

When Will put his mind to something, he did it the way he fought - with complete dedication and clumsy, whole-hearted, bull-headed abandon. He approached their new friendship the same way, throwing himself into it without reservation. He waited for Merlin on the corner on the way to school, looked for him at every break, got them on the same team for every game, stole most of his chips at lunch, but always offered half of his pudding in return. 

The days suddenly grew unacceptably short. There was so much to do, and all of it had to be done right now, urgently, like there could be no tomorrow. Will had lived in the town most of his life, and he had countless things to show Merlin: the really ugly house down the road, the crazy lady with an actual moustache, the pond with tons of frogs, the best climbing trees, the abandoned textile factory, the bit of forest behind the council estate that was really creepy after dark. There was a pet shop where Merlin temporarily lost his mind over a golden retriever puppy and had to have two slushies to calm down. There was a comic book store from which they nearly got banned on the very first visit, and there was a hill with a breathtaking view across the fields, with a river glistening far in the distance like a silver thread in the green. Will said that his dad would take them both fishing there in the summer.

"Word on the street is," said Mum a few weeks later, "That my son's made friends with the school bully."

"Will's not a bully!" he protested hotly, even though she was smiling, obviously not concerned at all. "He's just misunderstood. He's awesome."

"Then I should trust you to keep you both out of trouble. Bring him to dinner, will you? I'd love to meet your friend."

Will baulked at the invitation as if Merlin suggested he'd kiss a toad. 

"She'd hate me," he said after Merlin pried enough. "Mums just hate me. They're all like, nooo, that Will, he's a rebel, he's dangerous, stay away from him." 

"She's not like that," said Merlin. "I promise. And she's making apple crumble tonight. She makes the best apple crumble in the world, it's just apples and crumble! None of that boring old crust on the bottom. She makes it in the frying pan."

"Huh," Will said, his eyes glazing over dreamily. "Well, I warned you."

He turned up dressed in a suit, thankfully without a tie, with a bunch of carnations wrapped in a newspaper. His hair was artfully spiked and encrusted in gel, and his face was red and shiny, like he was scrubbing at it with soap for the best part of the afternoon. 

"Oh hell no," Merlin moaned. "You look like you're going to ask her out or something."

"Shut it, tosser," Will hissed through clenched teeth, and elbowed him in the side on the way through the door. "That crumble better be sensational."

At the table Will started a conversation about the weather, and then congratulated Mum on serving especially delicious boiled potatoes. He sat very straight, like he literally had a broom handle shoved up his ass, and kept daintily touching the napkin to his lips. As if it wasn't him who yanked a Yorkshire pudding off Merlin's plate today at lunch and sprayed them both with gravy; as if he wasn't normally so committed to sprawling in his chair that he went tumbling backwards onto cafeteria floor more than once.

When he picked up his tea cup Merlin couldn't take it any longer and tried to kick him under the table, but couldn't reach. 

"Will, stop sticking your pinky out or I break it, seriously," he said. Will glared and blushed and, because the bastard had longer legs, actually landed a kick to Merlin's shin.

"Oh, is there more cream?" he said vindictively and upended the tub onto his plate, not leaving Merlin any. "I must have the recipe for this dessert, it's scrumptious."

Mum wasn't weirded out by any of this, she just kept smiling and looking at them a little misty-eyed. 

"I'm so glad you've made friends with Merlin, Will," she said suddenly. "He was very lonely here. I know he's a sensitive boy, and can be a little shy..."

"Mum!" yelled Merlin in utter outrage.

"Mm, let me tell you something," Will said, swallowing a huge chunk of crumble. "This sensitive thing - he just puts on for the girls. They are all over him, he'll get a girlfriend soon if we don't watch out. How gay would that be?"

"Not... very?" Mum ventured. "Girls, really?"

"He's lying," Merlin grumbled. "They're just being friendly."

"Oh yeah, does that sound familiar: Meeeerlin, let me borrow your peeencil...."

"She just wanted to borrow a pencil!"

"Yeah right," Will smirked sagely, and turned back to Merlin's mum. "Truth is, and I know he looks like butter wouldn't melt, but Merlin is freaking badass. I'm, personally, well pleased to have a friend who's actually cool."

Mum laughed and reached out to stroke Will's spiky hair. For a moment he looked like he was going to close his eyes and lean into it, and possibly rub his face into Mum's hand and purr like a kitten, but thankfully he didn't, so Merlin was spared from going completely insane.

"Your mum's pretty great," he said as Merlin walked him home.

"Don't you even think about having a crush on my mother."

"I'm not, you dirty pervert! She's just... a great mum."

"Well, yeah," Merlin shrugged. "Isn't yours like that?"

"Not really. Hey, do you think you could come over to mine for a sleepover? Now that she knows I'm trustworthy and sensible. I have Playstation Two!"

Will's house was two streets from theirs and looked exactly the same, except it was painted a slightly darker beige. All of the terraced houses lined up north of the square were exact replicas of the same model, except for the shades of beige paint on the front walls, the shapes of the front doors and the types of curtains hanging in the front windows. 

Will's front garden was completely paved over, clean and empty, and looked like a helicopter could land on it at any moment if it managed to manoeuvre into the tiny space. 

"We're not much into gardening," he said. "The back's a jungle, we're kind of proud of it."

The house was cold and smelled musty; Will went straight to the kitchen, switched on the boiler and filled up the cheap plastic kettle. It was getting dark, and the back garden did look a bit like a piece of wild jungle in the sparse light from the window. The lawn had grown knee-high and was dominated by nettles, the fence was swathed in thick layers of ivy. Hideously overgrown rose bushes stood stark against the sky, still bearing the hips of dead flowers on the top branches. There was a sickly apple tree in the corner, drowning in masses of climbing weed. Merlin loved the garden on sight.

"It's really nice in the summer." Will threw his school bag on the kitchen table and picked up the phone off the wall hook. "So, pizza?"

They ordered the super deluxe special, got mugs of tea to warm their fingers on while they waited for the house to heat up, settled on the comfy beat-up sofa and fired up the Playstation. 

"Willll," Merlin said three hours and twenty minutes later. "I have actual blisters on my thumbs and I'm going to throw up pizza and coke through my nose, probably, and I never felt so happy in my whole entire life. I blame you for everything."

"Sugar rush, man!" said Will, grinning hugely. "Have some more coke before you come down, we have another seven levels to do."

"When are your parents coming home? We're totally having a party in the front room, they'll kill you. We should clean up. Except I can't move."

"Oh, they're not coming. That's why I said Friday, we can stay up all night and then go out for full English in the morning, yeah?"

Merlin nodded, carefully, still unsure he wouldn't throw up if he moved his head too much, and tried to think through the pizza-induced happy fog.

"Will, do you actually have parents?" he asked, fighting off vague Dickensian images of orphans in his head.

"'Course I do."

Will put down the controller and twisted about on the sofa, dislodging pillows, disk cases and empty cans till he could fully turn toward Merlin and sit there cross-legged, hunching and steepling his fingers like a super-villain in a movie.

"Can you keep a secret?" he hissed in a dramatic loud whisper.

"Yeah!" Merlin yelped, delighted. Somehow, without even realising that, he'd been waiting for this moment. The friendship just didn't seem complete without a secret to share.

"I kind of live by myself right now. It's not really legal, so don't tell anyone."

"That's so cool! But how?"

"Well, really, I live with my dad, all right. But he's in the army, so right now he's in Germany for a month, on some exchange thing. Last time he went away I stayed with my mum, but this time I said no way. I'm almost fourteen, I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself. And I just hate her new bloke. First degree tosser. So, the house's all ours for another two weeks."

"But, but, how do you live?"

"What, he left me money, obviously. All bills are on direct debit, I just buy food and stuff."

"But what if you get sick? Or if the house is burgled? Or there's a fire?"

"You're such a mummy's boy, Merlin," Will said, "I'm talking about the, the ultimate freedom! And you're all, oh, oh, what if there's a fiiiire? Next thing you'll be asking me if I'm not scared to sleep all by myself in the house."

"No, but..."

"Look, I have the emergency numbers. I can call my mum if I need to, dad calls me every day, and nothing is going to happen, okay? In two weeks all that's happened was that the timer on the boiler broke. No big deal."

Merlin settled back down on the sofa pillows and tried to think of the ultimate freedom, staying up all night and eating nothing but pizza, but he kept getting stuck on stupid details. He thought about having to do the ironing, and all the cleaning. And getting up for school in an empty house, all alone, on a grey cold morning, having to make his own breakfast, and locking up the house as he left, knowing it will be just as empty when he comes back, not really a home, nothing but an empty brick box.

"I can't think about it properly," he complained. "It's the pizza, it hurts my brain. Do you really eat pizza every day?"

"No, I cook. That's for special occasion."

"You? You cook?"

"I've been cooking since my mum moved out, since I was ten. Bangers and mash, spag bol, you name it. And now I have the recipe for your mum's crumble. I could, like, be a celebrity chef if I wanted to."

He gave Merlin a long, slow look and a wide grin, reached over and punched him on the shoulder.

"All right, just say it, it's awesome and you're completely jealous. It's all right to admit it, Merlin, it doesn't make you less of a man."

"Fine, fine, it is awesome." 

"And you can sleep over any time, because I'm nice and generous like that. You can start thanking me now."

"All right, I'll come over whenever you're lonely, Will," he said and got hit on the head with the controller. "Ow! And you can sleep over at mine, too. But only if you bring the Playstation."

He didn't notice when he fell asleep. One second he was fighting, frantically mashing the buttons, straining his eyes at the screen, trying not to blink, and kept getting killed over and over, and then he must have been dreaming about doing just that, because he woke up with a start, fingers scrambling for the controller, desperately trying to strafe left because the enemies were everywhere. 

The lights were off; the TV was muted, showing white noise. He was sprawled across the sofa, and partly over Will, who slept with his head improbably jammed against the sofa arm and his left shoulder jerking restlessly. When Merlin tried to get up he fussed, yawned and blinked his eyes open.

"Wanna go to bed?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, okay," Merlin whispered back.

Mum made him pack pyjamas and toothbrush, but they were in his bag, dumped somewhere in the dark room, and normal evening routines would be out of place in the middle of the ultimate freedom adventure. Besides, it wasn't even evening. The clock on the TV showed 03:41. He's never been awake at this time of night.

Will turned off the TV, took him by the hand and led him through complete, nearly palpable darkness out of the room and up the narrow staircase. They'd turned the boiler off around midnight, and it was chilly upstairs. Will pushed open the door, and they were in his tiny bedroom, scarcely lit by the diffuse glimmer of distant street lights. It was even colder inside; their shoes were left downstairs, discarded hours ago, and they dove into the bed straight away, burrowing under the icy blanket with all their clothes on.

"Head to feet?" Merlin asked, uncertain of the proper etiquette. When he went to sleepovers as a small child there was usually about five of them, and everyone had their own makeshift bed and blanket.

"I'm not smelling your dirty socks all night," huffed Will and stretched on his back flush at Merlin's side, so their shoulders and arms touched together, down to their wrists. "Ugh, s-so cold! This is a bit like camping, yeah? Sharing body heat."

"Yeah," agreed Merlin. Will's knuckles rested against his; Will's shoulder was bony but pleasantly warm and his breathing was already evening out, and the room was getting toastier by the second. He was going to sleep forever, maybe till noon, huddled up with his best friend for warmth and sheer pleasure of being next to each other. And then they'd go out for breakfast.

And then he knew he had to, he had to do it, he had to risk it. He knew that if he'd let this moment go he'd never be daring enough again, and would regret it forever. 

"Will," he whispered toward the ceiling. 

"Sleeeeep," moaned Will, tensing against him unhappily.

"Will," he twisted his hand against the sheets and grabbed Will's wrist, harder than he meant to, shivering with urgency, dread and excitement all mixed up. "Can you keep a secret?"

Will sat up right away, swathed himself in the blankets and crouched over Merlin, intently peering at him through the dark.

"Yeah," he said with the desperate, intense earnestness in his voice, the kind that, Merlin thought, probably only existed between best friends at around four in the morning, on the edge of the shaky sleepy exhaustion, when nothing is quite real, and anything, including the most impossible, seemed to have the same probability of happening. 

"You can never tell anyone."

"I won't. Ever. I swear."

Merlin brought his hands up and let it happen, without really thinking about it or trying for anything in particular. Blue glow bloomed between his palms, only the purest light, tame, cold and quiet, and then he let it flow into red, and then gold, and break into thousands small sparks, and melt into a pool of smooth radiance once more.

When he dared to lift his eyes Will wasn't even looking at his hands. He was staring at Merlin's face, enraptured, his eyes huge and full of honest, pure awe. 

"Oh wow," he said, "You're. You are."

"I am, yeah," said Merlin. His chest felt tight - he forgot to breathe for a while. 

"Brilliant," said Will in a choked, reverent whisper.

Merlin dropped his hands on the blanket, sending wisps of light flying, and started laughing. He laughed all through Will settling back down under the blankets, and even afterwards he couldn't stop, light-headed, woozy and somehow free, boundless and free like he's never been before.

"I'm probably the coolest person in the world," Will said over his sobbing giggles. "I'm thirteen and I live by myself, and my best friend's a warlock. I'm so awesome."

"You also... you also have Playstation Two," managed Merlin, gasping for breath, and wiped his face with the corner of the blanket. He'd laughed himself to tears.

"That too, yeah."

"You're also a criminal now. You could go to prison for not reporting me."

"Sooo cool, living on the edge, rebel to the bone," Will said smugly. He was on his side now, facing Merlin; his knees poked Merlin's leg, but that, too, was great. Everything was fantastic right now. "Can you do it again? I wanna see it again."

 


	5. Fugue-2

"This war," said Will, "Is utter bollocks."

They were at their place on the edge of the hill, where they went to hang out alone, talk about really important stuff and sometimes do some small magic in the open. The chilly fog that hung about for the most of the day had finally started to thin out, but it was hazy in the distance, and the fields below them looked flat and bare, endless and boring. Spring was coming, but it was still an eternity away.

Will hunched against the sudden gust of wind and glared up at Merlin expectantly, awkwardly craning his neck. He stopped growing sometime in the last year, and still was getting used to being the short one. 

"What?" Merlin asked.

"C'mon, don't you think it's utter bollocks?"

"I don't know. I mean, yeah, I agree, the intelligence reports are a bit dodgy."

"Fabricated is the word you're looking for."

"But it's not even about that, not really. People are suffering there. And we can help. Don't you think we should?"

"It's not that simple, Merlin! You can't just ride into another country on a white horse, blow some shit up and make everything better. It's not a fucking - fairytale! We know fuck all about those people and their lives. If we go in guns blazing we'll just mess it all up even worse!"

"Worse? People are getting tortured and killed! How can it be worse?"

"It can be. When there's a shooting war right in their home towns, so many more will die. It will ruin the whole country for years. And they'll hate us, even those who don't right now, and there will be more war and death. It'll be a cycle of vengeance, and it'll just keep spreading. We shouldn't go there. It will be a disaster."

"Your dad might not even get posted there," Merlin said as softly as he could, but Will still flinched like he'd slapped him.

"It's not about me or my dad," he hissed. "Don't you dare. He's not a coward, and I'm proud of him, and if he's posted I'm not going to... I'll be proud."

"I know, Will. I didn't mean it like that."

They were quiet for a while. Will had his back turned on him, to hide his face from the wind. He was shivering visibly and chewing on the tip of his pea coat's collar.

"So we're going to the war protest," he said eventually. "Me and you."

"All right," agreed Merlin easily. Will nodded to himself, breathed out harshly, sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

"Right," he said. "I've called the organisers already, so we're all set. We'll take the first train out on Saturday and then we'll try to catch the last train home. They said on the phone that we might not make it though, because there will be crowds and police and everything, so we might have to spend the night. I've got the money to get us in a B'n'B if we're stuck there." 

"Looks like you thought it through. Nice. Very practical," Merlin said and stood closer, to shield Will from the wind with the bulk of his enormous parka. It was still far too big for him, more like a walk-in tent than a coat, but mum expected him to grow into it any day now.

"Well, yeah, fuckwit, one of us has to be."

He didn't at all expect any complications. Mum let him sleep over at Will's for years, let them go camping with Will's dad, had no problems with school trips and summer camps. She wasn't supposed to freak out over them going to the city for a day or a weekend. They were fifteen, after all. Practically adults.

"Don't even think about it," she said for what must've been fifth time. "In fact, you're grounded till Sunday. You'll stay right here, on this very couch, where I can see you."

"But Mum! Why?"

"Because," she finally stopped pacing for the first time since he asked if he could go, sat next to him and grabbed both his wrists, squeezing hard enough to make him squirm. "It's a protest. It can't be completely safe. At those things something always happens, someone will get hurt. And with Will there that's a certainty. I can just see him getting in trouble, and you rushing out to save him, and there will be panic, a huge crowd, police everywhere... And the next time I see you will be in up to five years, through the glass in the visiting room."

He started to object because that was ridiculous, irrational and paranoid, but the look on her face – her lips were white, shaking, and it was sickening to realise what he was seeing. His mother was scared. So scared she could start crying in front of him.

"Do you know what's been going on?" she asked. "After what happened in that psychiatric ward they're not putting sorcerers in mental hospitals anymore. Or in prisons. They've launched those maximum security facilities, just two for the whole country, and they shove everyone there. Murderers, psychopaths, former disciples, children, people with latent abilities who can do barely anything, they're all locked in there together, all treated just the same. Because, they say, it's the only place equipped to contain sorcery. Nobody even talks about evaluating if a sorcerer is sane or dangerous, all they care about is proving you have magic. And then they take you and lock you up. Forever."

"But Mum..."

"And one day, they'll say they're no longer equipped to contain all that desperation and power in one place, and then..." she started, and her voice cracked, words turning into sobs.

"Look, all right! I won't go! Nobody will ever find out, they won't, I promise, mum. I promise."

They sat together, holding hands. He didn't dare to look at her till her breathing evened out completely.

"You're such a good son," she said.

He wanted to laugh and say something bitter and awful about being a freak and the reason she could never have a normal life. He even imagined telling her that maybe, if she had better taste in men, he wouldn't be born a mutant. He let the impulse wash over him and pass, and then he turned to her and smiled, as reassuringly as he could. She smiled back, still a little tearful, and gently traced the lines of his face with her fingertips.

"You're so grown up now. I used to think that once you're no longer a child it would be easier, I wouldn't worry so much. But it's just getting harder. Every day brings new things to worry about. You're almost a man, I can't keep you with me forever. Soon you'll have your own life. And I know there is so much you want to do, but you have to be careful. You can't let yourself be discovered."

"Right, no dangerous things for me, check. Guess I won't become a fireman after all. Or a soldier, not that Will even wants us to join the army any more. Or a policeman."

"You never wanted to be a policeman."

"Or an F1 driver. Or a bodyguard. Or any kind of celebrity, because I don't want to attract attention. Or a doctor," he carried on miserably. "Because what if somebody was dying on the operating table and I could save them? No, my great destiny must be being a janitor. Or a dog walker. Or maybe there are some exciting careers in dry-cleaning business I could pursue." 

"Let's see you finish school and college first, then we'll worry about that."

"How am I supposed to tell Will that I'm not coming to the protest?"

"Just blame it all on your crazy old mum," she smiled. "I'm fine with that."

He couldn't do it over the phone, so he walked over to Will's place, composing increasingly lame and pathetic lines in his head. Will was going to be such a jerk about all this; they were going to have a fight and it'd take them hours to make up again.

"Look, I'm sorry! She's my mother, what was I supposed to do?" he yelled as soon Will opened the door. He got a little carried away with his internal conversation and forgot what he was supposed to start with.

"Mum freaked out, huh?" said Will, amused. "It's all right. Come in."

Will's father was on the front room couch, drinking Fosters with grim determination. Normally he'd give Merlin a firm handshake and a grin that was freakishly identical to Will's - their family resemblance was getting stronger every day, especially now that they were almost of a height. Today he just frowned at him sternly and gave him a curt nod.

"I'm not going either. The warmonger here has me under house arrest," said Will. "It's really a miracle that I'm not doing push-ups right now."

"Keep talking and you both will be," his dad said. "My own son, the one who's supposed to support me..."

"I support you! What I can't support is your arse-backwards moronic political stance. And why can't I have my own beliefs? Why can't you support that?"

"Will, one more word from you, and I'm confiscating your games console," dad said. Will rolled his eyes and proceeded to express his outrage through body language. "And, Merlin, I am frankly very upset with you. What's that about political protests? What's next, blowing up post offices? You were supposed to keep this one on the straight and narrow, be a good influence on him!"

"Since when?" asked Will and Merlin at once.

"Since you, due to some lucky genetic accident, look like a nice kid. So when you're both arrested for robbing an off-license you'll walk away scot free, and Will here will go down and get shanked to death in prison, and that's when you'll say oh, I wish I was a good influence on him, like Mr Matthews wanted me to be."

"Dad! How do you get from a war protest to robbing an off-license?"

"It's a slippery slope, my son, slippery slope."

Merlin stayed at Will's till late. Will's dad let them share a can of beer, gamed with them for a bit till all the factual inaccuracies in Duke Nukem got on his nerves, and started telling them army stories. That triggered another war debate, and Merlin and Will did end up doing push-ups together in the front room. Technically, Merlin didn't have to do anything Will's dad told him to, but he wouldn't let Will get punished alone.

"Silencing of political activists," huffed Will, "Our spirit won't be broken!"

When he went to the kitchen to check on the supper, his dad nudged Merlin and said:

"Seriously though. I know I'm not around much, and with the war on, I might be away a lot. Don't let that moron drag you both into anything stupid."

"Why I am suddenly the responsible one? Maybe I'm about to drag him into something, you don't know."

Will's dad smirked and gave Merlin another can of beer.

"Nah, you're all right. You're just a bit of a pushover, when it comes to Will. If he jumps off the bridge you'll jump right after him, 'cause you think that's what friends do. But what the real friend should do is say: 'Don't jump off the bridge, you stupid cock'."

"We just wanted to be politically aware, with a social conscience," Merlin sighed and sipped his beer, trying his best to enjoy the taste.

The Asian family at number 17 was having their annual bonfire bash, and everyone was invited. Will's dad brought two enormous boxes of fireworks, and placed himself in charge of all the pyrotechnics.

"Don't worry! I'm a professional!" he'd announce to the concerned parents, and would corral the kids to safe distance and make them do the countdown together, clap and yell 'Hurrah!' after every blast.

"How is he forty one? He's got the maturity of a toddler," said Will. They were both maintaining carefully detached poise, pretending not to enjoy themselves. It was pretty hard to do. The night was clear, a perfect cloudless black backdrop to the brilliant colours of the fireworks, and just breezy enough that the smoke didn't hang in one place, ruining the display. Everything was just right. They were wrapped up warm enough to stand still in the chill of the November night, they had cups of parched peas and a bottle each of some sickly alcopop, and Merlin's mum was just about to serve sticky pudding she'd brought. The acrid smells of smoke and the relentless crackling of the fireworks from all over town mingled with the smells of food and the hum of voices and laughter. It was as if the whole town was having the same party, and the festivity stretched endlessly into the night, all the way to the dark horizon. Everyone celebrating together, all of them friends and family, even the people he had never met and wouldn't ever meet.

Will's dad was shouting over the lawn for Merlin's mum to save him an extra helping of the pudding, and she was laughing, looking wicked, pretty and so carefree. Their parents didn't generally speak a lot, but when they were together they seemed to get along. And right then Merlin saw no reason why everyone shouldn't get along, why everyone in the world couldn't be joyful and stupid and shoot fireworks into the dark sky, and laugh as they bloomed against the black like little shuddering galaxies, each one a thousand brand new worlds of happiness. He suspected that he was getting drunk for the first time in his life, and felt very proud, uninhibited and wild, extremely cool.

"Bet you could do better," said Will. His head was thrown back, toward the sky, and a Roman candle that was just set off was reflected perfectly in each of his dilated pupils.

"I could," agreed Merlin, already imagining the whole sky set aglow with his power, his mind drunk-fuzzy, but pliant and quick. Maybe later at night they could sneak out and try something on their hill; everyone would just think it was more fireworks going off...

"Think my dad's trying to pull your mum. We better watch it."

It wasn't the first time he went for that joke, so Merlin just laughed without even looking over.

"You know," said Will, still staring upwards. "If he wasn't such a wanker, it wouldn't be a bad idea. Then we'd be, like, brothers."

"We are like brothers," said Merlin and slipped his hand into Will's. They were far too old and manly for hand-holding, but nobody would see it in the dark, hidden between their bodies, in the folds of their coats.

"More like a couple of fags," scoffed Will, threading their cold fingers together, and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

"Remember, remember the fifth of November!" recited Will's dad loudly, advancing on them. "Come on, lads, help me set up the big one."

"Leave them, you know it's embarrassing for them to even be in the same country as their dad these days," laughed one of the adults.

"My point exactly, it's the last time! This time next year they'd have failed their GCSEs already, and will be out on a pull, no time for us old farts. They won't have a proper bonfire again till they're parents. They better remember this one."

Will affected a huge put-upon sigh. His hand slipped out of Merlin's, and they both went over to the launch pad in the middle of the patio to fiddle with the massive, garishly painted rocket. Will was bickering with his dad, as usual, and Merlin was more of a hindrance than help, clumsy and giddy, dutifully concentrating on committing every second to memory, as if it actually was important somehow.

It wasn't like Will to skip college, even though almost every day he threatened to pack it in and get a proper job. He was always there, at their meeting corner, right on time; it was Merlin who was usually late and had to run uphill while Will made a show of tapping his wristwatch and yelled abuse at him. If not for Will, he'd hardly ever catch the right bus.

It wasn't like Will not to answer his phone. Since they'd both switched from pay-as-you-go to the proper contract they talked all the time when they weren't together, making sure they spent their minutes and got full value for money. By mutual agreement, they drew a line at calling each other from the bathroom.

Merlin kept redialling all through the bus ride, and all the way to the lecture. When it started, he switched his phone to vibrate and kept trying, carefully holding it under the desk, where the professor couldn't see. Lecturers went mental if they sensed a mobile phone around. It was like with bulls and red cloth, only much more deadly.

Ten minutes to the break the phone buzzed in his hand, and he ducked down to answer. 

"Merlin," said Will. If not for the caller ID, Merlin wouldn't have recognised the voice. It was weirdly flat, devoid of any expression. "It's my dad."

Merlin waited, squeezing the phone harder. It was slippery in his hand, suddenly coated in sweat; his fingers were numb and wouldn't close properly on the plastic. Will wasn't saying anything; there were odd sounds on the end of the line, and he couldn't even figure out what they were.

"I'm coming over now," he said loudly, and bolted out of the lecture hall. The professor yelled something at his back, but he was already out of the door. 

He couldn't wait for the bus, so he started running. Less than the half way there he was completely out of breath, vision blacking out, and his legs felt like chunks of lead haphazardly attached to his body. He leant against the bus stop post, just to try to get some air into his spasming lungs, and that's when the bus finally caught up with him. He got on, and regretted is straight away. Sitting still was a torture; he wanted to keep running, forcing his muscles to move, so he wouldn't have time to think and feel this slowly building, crushing dread.  
   
The front door was unlocked. Will stood in the middle of the front room, staring at him with a face that didn't look quite like his, more like an ill-fitting mask stretched over his real features. 

"Is he alive?" asked Merlin as soon as he could talk without panting. Will shook his head, slowly, like moving underwater. 

He knew that already, deep down. If his dad was only wounded, however badly, Will wouldn't be like this. He'd be swearing down the phone, demanding to fly over and yell at his idiot father in person; he'd be livid and alight with energy if there was anything that still could be done.

Merlin walked over and grabbed Will in an awkward hug, because he didn't know what he could possibly say. Will swayed a little, fighting for balance, rigid all over, his every muscle locked tight and trembling from the strain. 

"They came this morning," he said almost soundlessly into Merlin's neck. His voice reverberated through the hollows of their bones, more felt than heard. "They said, single bullet through the heart. He never felt it."

The room was trashed. All the shelves were ripped off the walls, books and DVD cases sprayed everywhere, some boxes crashed as if they were stamped on. The TV was pushed off the stand, and hung precariously just above the floor, one corner caught in the legs of an upturned chair, the other held up by the taught power cable still plugged into the socket. An unpleasantly familiar sour stench hang about the room. When Merlin glanced down he saw a half-dried puddle of vomit on the carpet, right by their feet. 

He pulled Will tighter against himself, and he finally thawed up a little, leaned into it, and then sagged against Merlin, heavy and strangely cold all over.

"They brought papers," he said, his dry lips moving slowly against Merlin's collarbone. "I can't read them. Can't see the letters, even. I'm supposed to do things. Organise. Sign stuff."

"I'll call my mum now, she'll do that," Merlin said quickly. "She'll sort that all out. You should go to bed now. Rest a bit. Get warm."

He dragged Will up the stairs to his bedroom. Will went quietly, listless and pliant, the way he was when drunk and on the edge of passing out. Except drunk Will would be talking shit right now, giggling and attempting to sing; he never was quiet for more than a minute. Merlin stripped off Will's shirt, put him to bed and tucked the blankets around him. Will let him do all that, staring into the wall with wide open unblinking eyes. 

"I'll be right back," Merlin said and dashed out into the back garden. He couldn't breathe, as if he was still running that five mile stretch; he sat down in the wild grass and forced himself to inhale deeply till he got dizzy.

Once he got her on the phone, everything got so much easier. He listened to her gasp, utter "no, no, no" and ask endless questions, and then they both were sobbing and talking too much, over each other. This was something they could share, help each other through, the way he couldn't even begin to share Will's grief. 

He caught himself trying to put off going back in, and felt weak with shame. He didn't want to be near Will, didn't want to breathe in his misery, had no idea what to do to ease it. Every word he could say might make it worse, and Will didn't need it to be worse, neither of them did. 

He went inside anyway. He felt terrified, paralysingly helpless, but he was more scared of leaving Will alone.

Will was still there, in the same position, staring at the same spot. His breaths were coming out noisy and shallow, worryingly irregular. Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the blanket, and then, for the lack of better ideas, got under the covers behind Will and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

He stayed very still, waiting for cues, ready to back off at any time. Soon Will shifted and moved backwards, into his arms, his back flush with Merlin's chest. His shaky breaths got louder, stuttering. Against his skin Merlin could feel Will's throat working, clicking wordlessly.

"I'm here, Will," he said stupidly. He'd been searching for something right and comforting to say, but nothing else came to mind.

Will's whole body suddenly shook violently, over and over, and Merlin tried to grab him tighter, panicking, torn between keeping hold on Will and jumping out of the bed to call the ambulance, till he realised Will was crying. 

It was awful only for a minute or so, until the tears came. Soon Will stopped sounding as if someone was pulling his guts out. He still was shaking hard, and occasionally would turn his face into the pillow and let out a growling scream, like he was trying to push something horrid out of his chest. Merlin held him tight, rubbed his back, and waited it out. 

Will was getting warmer against him, his legs and arms loosening, relaxing slowly. His sobs were now hoarse and wretched, but also quieter, and finally Merlin let himself drift off a little and think about Will's dad. 

He didn't think of Mr Matthews as any kind of substitute parent figure, not in the way Will tended to cling to Merlin's mum when he thought he was being subtle. But he liked him a lot - for how similar he was to Will, and for every single way they were different. He always treated Merlin just the same as he did he own son, which didn't always seem like a good thing at the time. But now he missed it with awful urgency. He tried to think of the good things, camping trips, the time they went to Alton Towers, movie nights, army stories. But all that came to mind was the way the man's face fell when they told him they wouldn't be joining the army. He didn't even try to talk them back into it, just mumbled dejectedly: "Well, that's up to you, lads," but right now Merlin would've given anything to take that back. If they'd just never told him - they still weren't eighteen, still plenty of time, why had they told him back then...

He let his tears spill and dribble slowly down his nose, into Will's hair. When he pulled back to wipe at his face he realised that Will was snoring. He must have cried himself to sleep, literally; he didn't normally snore, but now his raw, swollen throat was making scratchy rumbling sounds. Merlin pulled the blanked higher over them and tried to nod off, too.

When he woke, Will was crying again, very quietly, probably trying not to disturb him. 

"Shh, Will," Merlin cooed, turned over and kissed the back of Will's neck before he woke up all the way.

"Sorry," he said and pulled back. "That was, um. Weird."

"It's alright, you wanker," said Will, laughing through tears. He grabbed Merlin's wrist and pulled it down, draping Merlin's arm across himself again. 

There was a knock on the door; that could've only been Merlin's mum. Will didn't move, so Merlin couldn't either, and didn't have the guts to yell for her not to come in. When Mum peeked inside, that's how she saw them, in bed together. Spooning. 

She didn't bat en eye. Her face was swollen, like she'd cried too, but overall she looked calm as ever, and Merlin felt a surge of gratitude and love for her that left him dizzy. He didn't even know he still had it in him to feel anything.

"I've made dinner," she said. "Come downstairs, you should try to eat something."

In the kitchen she gave Will a hug, and started saying she was sorry, but he pulled away quickly, hiding his face from her. They sat down and tucked into the sheppard's pie she's made while they'd been asleep in Will's bed. 

"Will, I want you to stay with us for now," she said. "I've called the college, you don't have to come in till you feel up to it. Both of you."

"Thanks, Mum," Merlin said.

"I've called your mother. She'll be here tomorrow."

"I don't want to see her," said Will, chewing his food miserably slowly, like a man with toothache in every tooth. 

"You don't have to. She'll stay in this house, she'll take over from here and make all the arrangements. Apparently, they're still married, so it'll be the easiest for her to do everything."

"Yeah. She was never stupid enough to divorce the military benefits."

Will swallowed another chunk of food, then suddenly bolted from his seat and retched into the sink. 

"Shit," he hissed and turned the tap on. "Sorry."

"It's alright. Have some tea," Mum said. "I'll make you a toast later."

She'd found time to clean up the room. The broken shelves were still down, but she put them against the wall, stacked all the scattered things into boxes, and cleaned the carpet. The TV was back on the stand, showing a news channel on mute.

"Don't worry about anything for now, just take your time," she said. "We'll look after you, Will. You've always got us."

  
For the first few days Will barely said a word. They both quietly drifted around the house and through the town when they wanted some air. Will's mum called his mobile once she got into town, and he hung up on her.

Time seemed to fly strangely fast - they'd wake up, wander around, collapse on the couch mid-afternoon, unaccountably exhausted, and by the time they'd wake up from a nap and had dinner it was almost bed time again. Every evening Mum made a bed for Will on the couch downstairs; most days he ignored it and crawled into bed with Merlin. Merlin hadn't attempted to snog or hump him in his sleep again, and was a little bit proud of that.

"How are you holding up?" Mum asked one day, when she got him alone.

"Compared to Will? I'm awesome."

"He's pulling through, I think," she said. "Just - while he's grieving he might say and do a lot of things he doesn't really mean. I want you to keep that in mind."

"What?" he asked. "What's that supposed to mean? Is that about the - because it's not like that! We're just, it's not like that, I swear."

"Look, no, that's fine with me either way, you're both over sixteen, it's no longer any of my business. I just don't want you boys to hurt any more than you already do."

He simply nodded, because it was easier than arguing.

He started to lose track of days, and was just about to try talking Will into going back to college before they'd both go stir-crazy when Will finally spoke.

"Do you think you can bring him back?" 

"Come on, Will, that's impossible. Don't."

"You don't know that. You said it yourself, you've never done really big stuff. You don't know where your limits are. Maybe you can."

"You're serious," Merlin said, suddenly chilled to the bone. "You actually want me to raise your dad from the dead."

"I want you to try at least. When his body gets here..."

"Will! Listen to yourself, that's insane! No!"

"You wouldn't even try?"

"No! It can't be done, Will, stop even saying it, I can't do it!"

"Can't or won't?"

"Look - I wouldn't even know where to begin. He'd have been dead for - no, that's crazy."

"You could practice on animals or something."

"Will, no! Think about what you're saying - what if, and I know it won't, but what if it works, and he'd be a, a zombie? He's your father! We can't do that to him!"

"We have to try at least," said Will, stubbornly clenching his jaw. "Are you scared? Is that what's it about? Are you afraid to use your magic? Because, I don't know what you're saving it for. Sure, it's a risk, but do you really think there'll ever be a better cause? No, this is it, Merlin, this is as bad as it gets. This is where you have to pull your finger out and stop thinking only about yourself and staying safe. We need your help, and you can do this."

"I can't, Will. Not this. I wish I could, and if there was some other way..."

"Fine," said Will. "I'm going home."

He left, and he wouldn't pick up his phone or answer texts. Merlin made up some story for Mum, and went to college the next day to keep himself busy, cowardly hoping Will wouldn't show up there. He didn't.

Merlin spent the rest of the day sitting alone in his room, too rattled to do anything. There was a fly buzzing at his window, and he watched it scramble against glass for a good half an hour. Then he got up and swatted it with a rolled up magazine.

He waited till its legs stopped shuddering and it stilled on the windowsill, a tiny dead husk. Then he cupped his palm over it and gave it a small jolt of his magic.

When he felt it bump into his hand, trying to fly out, he bit down a scream and jumped back onto his bed. The fly did a wobbly circle around the room, bumped into the glass a few more times, found the edge of the frame and flew out.

"All right," he said into the silence. "Right."

That didn't really mean anything. Insects were almost impossible to kill, anyway. Maybe the fly hadn't been dead. He remembered that story - if you cut off a cockroach's head it would die in about a week, from starvation. He wasn't sure if it was an urban myth or an actual piece of a secondary school biology lesson. But insects were wrong for this, in any case. He had to practice on animals.

Next day he went out to the motorway with a ziplock bag in his pocket. He found a roadkill, a broken corpse of a sparrow. He slid the bag around it, cringing in guilty revulsion, and brought it back to his room.

The bird was cold, bloodied, one of its wings a crushed mess. There was a torn wound on its small chest, and its head hung down limply, lolling about freely like it was only held to the body by the skin and nothing else. He couldn't even tell if its neck was broken. Maybe dead birds were supposed to be that way. 

It would be horrid to revive it like this, mutilated and torn up. If he, by some miracle, succeeded, the bird would be in agony. He had to try fixing it first.

He spread his hand over the broken wing, trying not to touch blood-encrusted feathers, and began. 

He didn't remember, and never actually knew in the first place, enough about bird anatomy to make any kind of informed decision. He simply let his magic flow in and guide him, concentrating on the intent. Make it right. Make it whole. 

He tried not to think how disgusting it was: shattered bones moving inside the dead meat, knitting up together, stiff bits of flesh rearranging themselves. The bird was staring at him with blind black eyes, and he was afraid of touching its head to try and make it turn away. He felt sick to his stomach, but he wasn't done yet. 

The wing finally looked like a wing again. With most of the feathers gone it looked more like one of the raw chicken wings on a supermarket shelf, stained with dark bruises under blue-white skin - and he was never going to eat meat again.

He left it alone and moved to the chest. The feathers there were tiny and soft, just fluff. He blew on them to get them to part and see the wound better, and then wished he didn't. There was something dark and wet sticking out of there, and he didn't know if he was supposed to take it out or stuff it back in. 

"No, I can't," he sobbed to himself. "I can't."

"What are you doing?" asked his mother from the door.

He jumped and let out a startled shriek. She was standing in his doorway, looking at the dead bird and his hands, still humming from magic, and she must have seen everything.

"I was just..." he started, and realised that he had no explanation.

"You can't be - I don't believe this," she whispered.

"Mum, no, I wasn't really - I was just trying to make sure that I can't do this. That I can't revive things. And I can't! And I swear, I'll never do this again, I'll get rid of this now - "

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"I know, all right? I know! It's crazy! And I'll tell Will it's not possible, so he'll shut up and back off, and everything will be..."

"Will?" she asked in a chillingly even voice. "Will knows about you?"

He opened his mouth to say something, and was stuck there, uselessly working his jaw. He couldn't believe he let that slip out, just like that, after so many years of being clever and careful. It was the dead bird, and Will's zombie dad idea, and Will's angry, closed off face, it all paralysed his brain somehow, and now she knew.

"Mum," he said. "No. He will never tell anyone. He knew since forever. Since we were thirteen. He never told anyone, and he never will, I promise you."

"This," she pointed at the bird with unsteady finger. "This, what were you trying to do? Did Will ask you to raise his dad from the grave? And you're - are you practising?"

"I just wanted to..." he started, and trailed off under her glare. He never seen her like that - she might as well be looking at a stranger. A stranger she didn't like at all.

"Let me explain something to you," she crossed the room and sat on the bed, with the bird spread on the plastic bag between them. "If you did something to his father's body, not necessarily successful, but something people might notice, do you know what would happen? Will would be arrested as the most likely suspect. He would be taken in and interrogated as a warlock. I don't know what they do. But they have special dispensation. That can mean - anything. He would be interrogated till he confessed to sorcery, or till he gave them the real culprit. And if he did that, if he gave you up, he'd serve up to five years in prison for not reporting you earlier. He's old enough now, there would be no leniency."

"He'd never tell anyone."

"You know, I would love to hear you say that you'd keep quiet and let him take all the blame. But I don't think I'd believe you."

"I'm not going to do anything," he whispered, scared by her white, still face almost to tears. "Mum, I swear. We'll be safe."

"He's a danger to you. And you're a danger to him. Your power is a constant temptation to you both, and one day you will do something that gets you both caught."

"I won't. I really won't. Mum, please, don't be mad. I'm sorry."

"We're going to move away," she said. "We've been here too long, it's not safe anymore."

"But we can't leave Will, not now!"

"It's for his sake, too."

"But I have college," he muttered, already knowing that her mind was made up. "And it's hard to get jobs now, can we just..."

"We're not going to argue about it. Let's just  - let's both calm down, have dinner and sleep on this, and tomorrow we'll start making plans."

"Where would we go?"

"We'll figure it out," she said. "We'll just keep moving for a while, as long as our savings will last, and then we'll come up with something. We'll be fine."

He followed her into kitchen, wondering belatedly why was she home so early. Then he remembered - she switched shifts at the store, she was doing a training course. She was up for a promotion. They were going to buy a car with the extra money, and next year they were going to go to Spain. It was going to be his first ever holiday abroad, to celebrate his first year of college. She kept joking that he was too grown up to vacation with his crusty old mum, and he was going to be bored to tears, he'd hate it. He looked at her as she moved around the tiny, tidy kitchen, sliding through the tight space between the table and the sink in a practised side-step, reaching for utensils and spices without looking because she knew exactly where they all were, they've been there for four years now. 

This year she was turning forty. It was time she stopped living in fear, constantly ready to run, with a prison sentence hanging over her head. He knew what he had to do. He just needed the courage to do it.

"I'm not hungry actually," he said. "I'm going to go say goodbye to Will now."

"There's no rush. We won't leave tomorrow, it might take a few days. We need to pawn what we can - you'll have plenty of time with him yet."

"Yeah, I want to get it over with," he sighed. "Mum, I'm so sorry. For everything."

"It's not your fault, sweetheart, don't be sorry," she pulled him into a hug, and he clung to her desperately, trying his best to keep himself in check and not cry, and not say anything that would make her suspicious.

"I know it's hard sometimes," she said. "But you know that I love you and I'm proud of you, and I couldn't wish for a better son. The joy you bring me is worth anything. You have to remember that, always."

He smiled gratefully, blinking hard to stave off the tears, stumbled to the front door and got his parka off the coat hanger. Mum's favourite cashmere scarf was on the shelf, folded neatly. He grabbed it and wound it around his neck, messily, with too much bulk under his collar. He wasn't used to triangular scarves, but he'd have plenty of time to figure them out. Then he went through all their coats and jackets pocketing whatever change he could find, emptied Mum's purse of the money, and went out.

Will opened the door, munching on a cold sausage roll. He looked startlingly normal, as if the last week hadn't happened at all.

"Oh hi! I was about to call you," he said, beaming at Merlin. "Look - forget what I said, all right? That was crazy talk. Seriously batshit crazy talk. I'm... Hey, why are you wearing your mum's scarf?"

"Felt like it."

"Riiight. Well, anyway. Think I'm starting to get a grip now. I had this really great talk with my mother - are you coming in or what?"

"No, I have to go. I just wanted to check that you're okay."

"Yeah," Will said. "Yeah, I think I will be."

"Good," Merlin nodded, and abruptly grabbed him into a hug. Will shifted to stand closer and awkwardly patted him on the back with the hand still holding the sausage roll.

"No, really, mate, we need to stop with the cuddling. We're overdoing it, man."

"Yeah," said Merlin breathlessly, and pulled back to take the last look at Will's face. It wasn't a particularly handsome face, and right now it had extra zits and shaving rash on the side. But the thought of never seeing Will again pierced through him, nearly painful enough to make him groan out loud. He leaned forward and quickly planted a light, tight-lipped kiss on the corner of Will's mouth.

"Right," Will said, not looking all that surprised. "Should we, like, talk about this?"

"Nah," said Merlin, grinning at him like a loon. He must have looked pathetically soppy, but he couldn't help it: he wasn't even sad about their separation now, just happy to have known him. "Bye, Will."

He turned around and started walking.

He walked for hours, till his feet went from sore to numb and his ankles started hurting. The pavement under his boots quickly changed to gravelled hard shoulder with dusty frayed bushes that framed it on one side and cached at his coat as he brushed past. As it got dark, the road quieted slowly, with only an occasional car barrelling down past him at insane speed. He must have covered a good fifteen miles, but he knew that the moment he turned around he'd be standing right back on his porch, as if he never left. The lights inside would be on, the TV would be showing news on mute, and his mother would be on the front room couch with his discarded phone in her hand, waiting for him, worried sick.

"C'mon, let go," he said out loud. 

He felt a sharp push at his back and stumbled forward, and when he looked up again he wasn't even on a motorway anymore. He was in the middle of a dark, wet field, his boots sinking in the dirt. A mountain range rose at a far distance, black against grey night sky. It looked flat and immaterial, as if cut out of paper. In front of him the stark line of horizon was broken up by a patch of reddish ethereal glow, a heavy mix of fog and night lights rising to the sky; a big city.

A city sounded like a good plan. 

He'd been to the city before, a few times on school trips, and had always envied the native city dwellers. Every moment of their lives they were surrounded by extraordinary, vibrant things, submerged right into the heartbeat of everything. This was where the real life happened, where they made the news that would be lapped up later by the people on the fringes, in small, sleepy towns made up entirely of beige terraced houses. 

As they were dragged around by the teachers, sweeping through the city's sights and museums, just skimming the glossy surface of what was going on, he'd dream of really living here. Learning the real truths behind the carved façades of the beautiful buildings, exploring all the darks places between them, getting to know all the strange, odd people that moved through the street without looking around, each lost deep in their own thoughts.

He spent the day wandering in circles around the city centre, clinging to the tourist spots for their familiarity. He watched the tourists, trying to guess where they were from, basking in their holiday-making excitement, and fantasised about getting a job as a museum attendant, or a tour guide. A gatekeeper to the city, the one to welcome in all the starry-eyed travellers. 

But the whole point of coming to the city was to become invisible, disappear in the crowd. There were thousands of people living on the streets, feeding off the land, completely under the radar of the law, with no paper trail, no attachments, no connections. It couldn't be that hard. If crazy old men could survive on the streets and still have money for booze, as all TV shows seemed to indicate, then he would definitely have no trouble here. He'd spend his days communing with the city, drinking in everything it was, with nothing to do all day but laze around and enjoy himself. No homework, no chores, no obligations. And at nights he'd huddle next to burning rubbish bins with the other vagabonds and listen to their stories. He'd be the mysterious one, the man with a sad, dark secret. He needed to get a pair of fingerless mittens.

He hadn't slept the night before, and had mostly been on his feet for two days now. By the time the city centre began to quiet down, slowly turning into a ghost kingdom of dark shop windows and huge empty buildings, he was too exhausted to move. He stretched out on a bench by the embankment and closed his eyes, listening to the dull hum of the thinning traffic in the distance and the soft lapping of water against stone.  
   
He woke up when something long and hard poked him in the stomach. He jumped up, panicking, scrambling to get away. There was a policeman standing over him. The street lights glinted sharply on his helmet, leaving his face dark, hidden behind the glow. 

"You can't sleep here. Up you go."

"Am I under arrest?" Merlin stuttered, glancing around for escape route and possible witnesses.

"Just get off my beat, son. Need directions to the shelter? They'd be full, though."

"No. Thank you. I'm ready to go home now, I think."

"That's a good lad," said the cop tiredly, lightly knocking his truncheon on the bench. Merlin got up and carried on walking, hunching over from the pain in his tired legs. He was cold now, and he desperately wanted a cup of tea. He'd drink it black right now, gladly. 

He came to a bridge he only saw at a distance before, the rail one, plain and streaked from weather. Not a sight to put on a tourist brochure. But there was a light flickering underneath, and he headed toward it like a weary, hopeful moth.

The people around the tiny fire weren't old and crazy, and they weren't wearing fingerless mittens. They were mostly kids, some younger than him, all dressed and made up with such effortless, outlandish cool that he felt like a country simpleton in his parka, cheap jeans and old walking boots. As he approached they all fell silent, turned around and glared at him. 

"I'll just sleep over there," he said and picked his way through rubble and rubbish to a darker corner, away from them. The ground was cold and uneven, but as soon as he settled down and propped his head against the wall, the soft soft darkness enveloped him all over, turning his muscles to warm jelly and numbing his mind till his thoughts became scattered, coloured, dream-scented. He never thought simply falling asleep could be such a sharp, complete bliss.

He was woken up by someone prodding and shaking him - again - and nearly lashed out in frustration, sore and groggy, even more tired than before. There was a girl kneeling over him. She had to be one of the kids from before, only now her mascara was running, streaking her face like a Halloween make-up. 

"Help, help," she sobbed. "Raven's dying."

There were had been about twenty of them when he'd come came here, but now only four were left. A guy was wavering by the edge of the arch, muttering long strings of curses, and another one was by the dead fire, prone and still. There was another girl was by his side, rocking back and forth and wailing quietly. 

"We weren't even doing anything," said the girl who woke him. "Nothing special. Do you know what to do? Please, do something."

"We need to call the ambulance."

"We can't! We'll be screwed, they all ran off already, and Raven's going to die! And we can't be arrested, we can't!"

"Right," Merlin said, blinking away sleep. "Okay. Call the ambulance and tell them where to find him. Use the payphone. And then go away, go home. I'll stay with him and cover for you. Go, run."

She nodded, sniffling and swallowing tears, grabbed the wailing girl by an arm and dragged her away. The guy had already disappeared, leaving Merlin alone with Raven.

Raven's eyes were open, but he stared intently somewhere above him and wouldn't focus on Merlin. He was jerking slightly from time to time, making tiny sounds like hiccups. There was a streak of something gross-looking on his cheek; when Merlin touched his wrist he felt the pulse pounding under his fingers fast and slurred, like a drumroll. 

Merlin put his hand on the guy's chest and felt, nearly saw his heart, fluttering against the ribs, choking and stuttering, the red muscle straining and cramped, ready to burst.

"Okay, Raven," he said. "Yeah, I bet right now we both wish I'd practised on animals a bit more."

He pressed down with his palm and pushed forward with his magic, taking hold, testing his limits. It was easy. He could feel another's blood and flesh in his grasp just like he felt his black shirt under his fingers, the ground under his feet. He wrapped his power around the man's heart, soothing and gentling it like he would a frightened rabbit.

"I've no idea what I'm doing," he confessed into Raven's white face. He pressed the fingers of his free hand to the pulse point on his own neck and put all he had into matching their heartbeats, slowly, carefully. He could feel another life straining under the current of his magic, bathed in it, defenceless, surrendered. Just a moment of panic, one careless move, and he'd ruin it all, and it would be beyond repair.

Raven stopped shuddering. His pale-blue lips were filling with colour, and there was something resembling sense in his eyes now.

"Who are you?" he suddenly rasped.

"I'm a hallucination," said Merlin in what he thought would be funny, reassuring way, before he realised that wasn't the best suitable phrasing ever. Raven's eyes widened and began to roll back, which was probably not good. But his heart was beating slowly, steadily now, and Merlin didn't know what else he could do, except sit here and hold him, just so he wasn't alone.

He stayed like that till he heard a screech of a siren. The girl had called the ambulance after all; only then he realised that he hadn't thought she would. He waited for the footsteps and voices to drift close enough and skittered away, clinging to shadows and wrapping them around himself, the way he used to wrap light when he was little.

The city was a trap. He could see it now. It wasn't an adventure, or a gritty but feel-good comedy drama like the ones he used to watch with his mum. The ones he saw today could have been just spoiled rich kids whose usual game went a little wrong; the real homeless would be lost, exhausted and desperate people. They had no one looking out for them, and they would need help every day, all the time, and he would have to help them. He could never hide here. He'd flare up like a torch. The city was a mistake.

The train and bus stations would be closed now, and he wasn't even sure he'd dare to go there. He turned north of the river, and carried on walking.

  
He wasn't starving. Once, when his legs gave out and wouldn't move any more and he had to lie for an hour or so in an exhausted sprawl in a soft, furrowed field, he figured out how to make money. It was easy, as long as he turned small bills into bigger ones; once he grasped the general idea behind every pattern he could shift between them without much effort. He tried making money out of chocolate bar wrappers, but couldn't get the feel right. They were too smooth and sleek to the touch. The chocolate smell wouldn't go away either, though he didn't think that would make anyone suspicious.

He bought food from stalls and supermarket outlets, and he'd sleep in empty barns when he was in the country and found shelter behind warehouses when he wasn't. He lost count of those nights quickly. It could have been weeks, or it could have been few days. While he could he kept moving, because it kept him from having to think. He had no plan, no goals, and, as long as he kept to himself and stayed on the road, he had nothing to fear.

From time to time, as his mind began to wander, he'd find himself in a different place from where he was a second ago. It was a bit like that odd lurch that happened on the day he left home, when he found himself miles away from the motorway he'd been following. But these times he felt no push, not even a the smallest jarring sensation. He'd lift his eyes, and the scenery would have changed. He thought at first he was losing time, muddled with fatigue and the soul-sucking feeling of emptiness and aimlessness, which was exhausting in itself and kept building up every day. It took him a while to realise that he was, in fact, losing space.

He walked till he came to the sea.

It was grey and flat, its surface speckled with shifting dips and waves. It looked carelessly cast out of lead; even the shifts and moves of it were too solid, too heavy. It was nothing like the perfect blue of the seas in the tourist brochures, or the stormy white mess of the seas that were really Northern, not just in name.

He climbed down the dunes, crossed the heaps of flotsam and the stretch of the wet wavy sand and stood at the water's edge, letting the waves lick at the cracked toes of his boots. He lifted his foot and carefully tested the water surface with his sole.

He could feel the water resisting the pressure, tensions lines stretching taught from his heel to the distant horizon. He could just keep walking. He could walk across the sea if he wanted to, all the way to the other side, and try to settle in Denmark.

He pushed harder and let his foot sink to the bottom. The sand was muddy there, sticking to his soles like clay. Cold water seeped through the bootlace holes and bit at his ankles, and began soaking in through the thick leather, filling his boots.

He could just keep walking.

He stood there till he could no longer stand the constricting pain in his frozen feet. Then he staggered out of the water and followed the dunes along the beach, all the way to the town in the distance: glistening roofs, black church tower, a pier cutting into the sea, a few yachts bobbing among the waves.

It looked picturesque. Lovely even. 

 


	6. Fugue-3

The lovely town had always been lovely, and stayed that way even in these uncertain times thanks to an exclusive yacht club, an even more exclusive golf club, and a constant influx of young immigrant workers. They took any job, no matter how unpleasant, worked for cheap and spent easily. They moved onto better things and more exciting places as soon as they settled in a bit and got their bearings. But then the new ones would come, and would be happy to spend a few months in a lovely quiet little town as they got used to the new country and to the new, crippling feeling of being homesick and alone.

Apparently, being foreign was not a requirement - having low expectations and little choice was quite enough. Merlin followed his nose, walked into the first fish and chip shop he came across and was employed before he got half way through his bowl of chips. 

The owner of the shop was a very old man with prominent and elaborate network of red veins on his nose. He talked fast and moved slowly; while cooking the chips he managed to complain to Merlin about the government, the weather, the heat from the frying range that wasn't doing any good to his blood pressure, the passing of his wife twelve years ago, which left him to tend the shop all by himself, and the departure of the previous employee, who was now a showgirl in the new casino down south. When the sudden job offer made Merlin hesitant, the man tapped his patchwork nose, winked at him knowingly and said that it would be "off the books, cash in hand, no deductions, no questions asked". He really meant it about questions: he wasn't even interested in Merlin's last name.

The wage was almost non-existent, but the generous benefits package included free lodgings upstairs and all the fish and chips – and mushy peas – that he could eat.

"Are you sure?" he asked, to be fair, and stuffed another handful of chips in his mouth. "You don't even know how much I can eat."

"Hm," said the shop owned, peering at him myopically through his age-faded eyes. "Can't quite see you when you turn sideways, laddy. Think I'll take my chances."

  
The lodgings were a bedsit, with a single window facing the back yard where they took deliveries. There was no TV, but he found that he'd already gone through withdrawals from all his favourite shows, and he didn't want to know the news. There was no fridge, but it wasn't like he'd need it. His new landlord said it was furnished, and it sort of was. It had a single bed by the window, a mattress in the opposite corner, both with bed linens and many dusty flat pillows, and a bookshelf holding probably the full works of Tom Clancy and two volumes of Jane Austen. The wallpaper was hanging off the wall in wide torn strips that rustled in the draft; Merlin got a roll of duct tape from the shop downstairs and stuck it back up neatly, feeling domestic and mature.

Next day he went through the crash training course, and heard his boss say "It's not rocket surgery for fuck's sake, lad," about eight times. It seemed so much to take in, way too many buttons, and the list of safety precautions the old man kept rattling off could probably make up a book to rival Tom Clancy's average volume. The potato peeler was terrifying in its brutality to potatoes, but at least he didn't have to peel them by hand. 

When it came to learning about the fish he braced for the worst, imagining guts and scales and dead fish eyes staring at him accusingly. But thankfully, miraculously, there was no actual fish, just frozen fillets: white inoffensive brick-like things that he didn't even have to think about as meat. 

By the end of the day he was already known around town as the new lad from the chippy. By next week he was tending the shop alone, all the way from taking deliveries in the morning to scrubbing the floors at night.

The job was oddly fun, in a monotonous and exhausting way. He liked watching food bubble and sizzle in the hot fat, and operating all the heavy machinery, and having light, superfluous chats with the customers who didn't ask any difficult questions and didn't want to know any more about him than his landlord did. Even cleaning up after closing was in a way soothing and satisfactory. The shop window was tiny and mostly painted over, and the main street was absolutely dead between seven and nine, when the young people came out for pub crawls through the four pubs the town had. Sometimes he dared to scour the floor with magic. With the same childish sense of mischief he often dared to walk past the police station on his way to the laundromat and look at the missing and wanted posters. He knew he wouldn't be there, not even in the missing section. His mum was smarter than that. There was always at least one wanted poster warning that the person of interest was presumed a warlock, do not approach, contact authorities immediately. One week there were two: Thomas Collins and Mary Collins, a man in his late twenties and a woman who could've been his mother. 

He stared at her picture, grainy and flat, her face expressionless and tired, and knew he'd made the right choice. He'd done the right thing. He knew Mum thought the same.

The seasons changed; the winter had ended, and the council dotted giant tubs of flowering tulips in every possible nook and cranny around the main street. Merlin bought new jeans and a few t-shirts from Oxfam at the end of the road, and took both duvets to the dry cleaners. Everyone nodded at him on the street now, even the people he couldn't remember as regular customers. The guy from the bakery asked him if he wanted to come out to the pub for some drinks with the lads, and he declined politely. That was easy; when the girl from the chemist shop asked him if he was single and interested in getting together sometimes maybe, he panicked to the point of flailing and splashed boiling fat on his hand. 

"Not interested, then," she said after he finished swearing and coating himself with the burn spray. 

She was so nice, cute and friendly, and she looked so disappointed, and painfully embarrassed at being shot down. He had to stop her blushing and smiling this fake, brazen smile. In a sudden flash of what seemed like brilliance at the time he told her he was gay, and watched with relief as she joyfully laughed at the misunderstanding, apologised and said she hoped he met someone nice very soon. 

No girls asked him out after that, but a man from the deli started winking at him on the street. It didn't seem a flirty wink, more of an acknowledgement of solidarity, but somehow it was even worse and made him feel twice the faker. 

He wasn't even sure if he wasn't gay, in fact. He liked girls, they were pretty and generally easier to talk to than men, but the only person in the world he could ever imagine being that close to - body and soul, no holds barred - had always been Will. Still, he understood that whatever he felt for Will was mostly affection and trust muddled up with teenage horniness.

Anyway, wanking was perfectly fine and healthy, a hundred percent safe way to sort out that side of life. 

Merlin hadn't even noticed that the owner of the gentlemen's apparel shop had bought lunch from him every day for at least a week or two, not till the man leaned across the counter and asked if Merlin would like to have a few drinks with him sometimes, or a coffee maybe, coffee was great too.

"Sorry, no," he stuttered. "No, thank you, sorry."

"That's all right, don't apologise," said the man with a soft rumbling laugh. "I know I'm far too old for you, but I had to ask, you're so lovely and you seem a bit lonely."

"No, I mean, no. I'm just, I don't want to. I'm not - looking. For anyone."

"And that's perfectly fine, of course. But - you know what? If you ever need a friend, no strings attached, I promise, then you know where to find me, all right? Any time you need someone to talk to. Or any help, if you're in trouble."

"I'm not in trouble."

"I'm not saying you are. You just - you seem very lonely, actually. And you don't have to feel this way. You're not alone."

All Merlin could do was hide his eyes and fiddle with the pans, while the man kept talking, kindly and earnestly. 

"I don't know anything about your circumstances, but I would guess that you left home not on the best of terms. When I was in your shoes, somebody was there for me. Now it's my turn, and it would be an honour. I can understand what you're going through..."

Then more people came into the shop, and thankfully that conversation was over.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep despite being bone-tired, he thought about the offer. Just to talk to someone would be - but no matter how he tried to reword his story in his head, replacing 'magic' with 'gay', it felt like he would be taking advantage of the man's kindness in a rather disgusting way.

As the days grew longer and warmer, the golfing and yachting picked up again after the winter slump, and so did the business in the shop. One day the landlord brought in a sweet, shy blond girl with unpronounceable name, and announced that she and Merlin would be working and rooming together. 

"It's one room," she said when they shown her upstairs. "With a man."

"It's all right, love, our Merlin's a poofter," said the landlord, affectionately patting Merlin on the shoulder. "You'll be safe as houses. Will do him so much good, this, he's holed up here all the time like a mushroom, won't come out, won't talk to anyone. You cheer him up, all right?"

She smiled uncertainly, probably confused by his accent, and nodded. Merlin let her have the bed and relocated himself to the mattress. 

She picked up the shop operations frighteningly fast, and somehow still had the energy to clean their room and go out after the full day of work. When he declined the offer to accompany her to the pub she suggested they go for a walk on the beach instead, or take the bus to see a movie. She was a few years older than him, but he felt ancient next to her, so much older than his cheerful landlord or all the men who flirted with her in the shop. He felt like he'd already lived countless lifetimes, and couldn't get excited about anything anymore, not even about a sweet blond girl who genuinely wanted to be his friend.

Before going to sleep she'd talk to him, snuggled under her blanket. She told him about her birthplace, her family, her past boyfriends, her friends in England who were looking for a good job and a real place for her right now. Her stories were often odd and confusing; he suspected it was just because she sometimes used the wrong words. She'd ask him to tell her his stories, but he couldn't. He couldn't even make anything up.

Being robbed of his privacy, living this close to another person who he couldn't tell anything for their both sakes brought home what everyone around here had been talking about. He really was lonely, desperately, crushingly lonely, and it was getting worse with every day in this nice, pleasant little town where everyone knew everyone, but nobody knew him. And if they did - they'd all race each other to the police station, to claim the reward and clear themselves of any suspicions of collaboration. All of them, his landlord, the girl from the chemists, the gentlemen's apparel shop owner, his sweet room mate, all of them.

On the day when it all changed they had been following their usual routine. She stayed in bed for modesty while he got up, showered, got dressed in the bathroom and went out to take in their deliveries for the day. By the time he hauled the last of the bags into the shop she was already there, looking sunny and well-rested, setting up.

"Morning, Merleen."

"Morning, Agnezshka."

"Always funny how you say it," she giggled and switched on the frying range.

It happened almost soundlessly. He heard a popping sound somewhere deep inside the metal, and the next moment fire was everywhere, bursting through the range, between the pans, hungry waves of it rising in her face. 

He pushed her backwards and thrust his hand in the flame, felt for the heart of it, grabbed and pulled. The fire went easily and coiled around his fist, pulsing, waiting, warm and harmless on his skin. He let his magic slide along the burning paths to the source, to where the air was white with power and straining for more fuel. Then he killed it all at once.

The range was wrecked, charred black and melted in places. He had a faint idea of what might have happened, the landlord mentioned something about the condensation of fat vapours on the flute and how it was perfectly safe as long as they got the specialist in to clean it regularly. Maybe the old man forgot it was time to do it. Maybe he just underestimated how ancient and abused the equipment was.

Agnezshka made a small sound behind his back, and he turned to look at her. Her eyelashes and most of the eyebrows were gone. The few strands of her blond hair that escaped the cap were now black, curling back in sooty stumps. Her cheeks were red and there was a small blister already swelling in one spot, but that all would heal. He handed her their can of burn spray and went upstairs.

Once he was in their room he found that he had almost nothing to pack. The clothes he had accumulated here were stacked by the wall, neatened up by his room mate, but he didn't want them. He took his parka and mum's scarf, got his money from where he kept it between the pages of 'Sense and Sensibility', and headed for the bus stop.  

She ran after him, still covered in soot, tears streaming down her burned cheeks, and grabbed his hand. The shops all over the main street were getting ready for the opening; people were peering at them through their front windows, and some were already moving to the doors and out on the street, eager to eavesdrop.

"I won't tell," she said. "Never. We'll lie."

"It's all right. I was going to leave anyway."

He pulled away from her and got on the first bus, not checking the destination.

He saw the forest out of the bus window, far in the distance, and asked for the driver to drop him off right there in the middle of the empty stretch of the road. Once he was under the trees, he knew at once that this was the place. There was something in this forest, something that waited for him for a very long time; a promise, or maybe an answer. 

He walked fast, almost running, tireless and elated, and crossed the forest by nightfall. He stared at the power lines, the swirl of the motorway and a factory gleaming in the distance. Then he turned and went back into the woods. 

It wasn't a direct route, of course, it wouldn't be. He had to figure this out; he had to understand how the forest worked. 

He tried to chart his course by the sun and the stars as they peeked through the tree crowns, but that wasn't the way, he realised that quickly. The direction didn't matter, it was about the shape of his path. It was about the trees, it was about the roots tangled together underground in an endless web, one to another, never breaking the chain. The entire forest was interconnected, whole, and his destination was in all places at once. He just needed to make the forest reveal it.

He stopped being hungry on the second day, and soon stopped coming across any signs that humans had ever been here. The forest was getting older, full of brambled undergrowth and pleasantly dark, the ground thicker with the fallen leaves and softer day by day. He drank from the streams, dunking his lips right into the cold water that tasted of silver on his tongue. Sometimes a deer would emerge from the depths of the woods and join him, eyeing him cautiously. Wherever he went, the trees rose toward him proud and tall, holding their branches open as if they wanted to hug him, as if they'd been waiting for him, their long lost little brother. He hadn't washed or shaved or changed his clothes in what must have been a very long time, and sometimes a thought would occur that he must smell and look disgusting by now. But he felt better than ever, his own scent a part of the forest, all his fears and dreams dissolving slowly into the constant hum of wind in the leaves. 

He wanted to shed his clothes and run naked, one with the green, listening to the roots worming through ground under his bare feet. He wanted to fall into a tree's embrace and sink into the bark, become the tree, eternal and calm, rooted deep in the earth, and sleep, and wait. He imagined his own face, bearded and wild, framed in long tangled hair, rising from the wood like carvings of the green man from the walls of old houses, and he wanted to - but something in him kept pushing him forward, moving deeper and deeper into the maze of the woods. He was getting close.

When he saw the mist he knew he had arrived.

He waded through it, stumbling blindly, coughing as the wet air clogged his lungs. He could cut through the mist or boil it dry in seconds, but he wanted to show respect. Even reverence. 

Once the mist was left behind, he saw a man. The man looked surprised.

"It's not possible," the man said. "Who are you?"

Human speech - any speech - was odd and harsh to his ears after hearing nothing but the song of the green for so long. But he remembered, and everything was coming back to him now.

"I'm Merlin," he said. "I was looking for you."

He was in a sea of tents set up around small fires, with a huge unlit bonfire prepared in the middle, set in a stone ring. People were decorating it with flowers and small bones, drawing runes on the stones.

He thought they'd look - more Druidic. Different, feral even. With cloaks of eagle feathers, deer antlers strapped to their heads. But they looked more like travellers, dressed in practical layers, wellies and walking boots on their feet. A few people were dressed in something resembling ceremonial robes, but they had blue plastic cagoules over them.

Only as they drew closer he saw their markings, and the colours swimming in their eyes, and the power simmering in the spaces between them, tangled from one to another like roots of their forest. And he was among them now, seeing them as they were, and they all could see him.

Someone took him by the shoulders and led him to sit by one of the camp fires. He was given an ornate clay bowl of thick root stew and a wooden spoon, and the weeks-old hunger came back all at once. The food tasted of herbs and wood smoke, and it was warming him to his very soul. He tried to eat slower, not as messy, because they all were watching now, lined up in a wide circle around him. 

"Emrys," said someone. "There is no mistake."

"It is him."

"Yes. Dark times are ahead," said someone else. Many laughed, as if that was a joke. 

He finished eating and looked up at them, searchingly. They all had the same look on their faces, wide-eyed and hopeful, and he couldn't figure out what it meant.

"Can I stay with you?" he asked. He was home, he knew it, his journey was finally over. But he needed to hear them say it: that they accepted him, that they would take him in as he was.

"No," said one of the men in cagoules. "No, you can't."

"But - but why? I'm like you, you know I am, you're my people! I've found you! I went through the forest, it let me - doesn't it mean I belong here?"

"No."

"You're supposed to be my people," he managed before the tears choked him up and he couldn't say any more.

This really was the end of the journey, as he knew it would be. He had nowhere else to go, no hope left. He let them take him by the arms and lead him away from the fire.

"You cannot share our fate, Emrys," someone was telling him. "It's not yours. Our path is for us to walk alone. Your destiny isn't here."

Between two blinks he was suddenly alone, in a field between baled stacks of hay, with a village straddling the road to one side and a scattering of farmhouses to the other. He staggered to the nearest bale and collapsed at its coarse side.

He could still go back to the forest and stay there, alone, for eternity. The trees would be waiting for him. 

He sat on the ground, letting stumps of cut grass poke his legs till it hurt. The night came, and the moon rose above him, half-hidden by clouds, and he still couldn't move a muscle.

He heard sounds approaching, and finally managed to get up to take a look. Two figures were running through the field, and man and a woman, swaying on their feet, staggering and sagging against each other. He called out, and they startled like wild animals, changed direction and tried to run away from him. But they were so tired; he caught up to them easily, overtook them and tried to say something reassuring, convince them he wasn't a threat, offer them help. 

The man was barely standing, pale and drawn, probably injured. The woman supported him with all the strength she had left. Her face, dirty and lined, contorted in fear and pain, looked familiar somehow. 

"Mary Collins," he blurted out, and she moaned, losing the last of her resolve, and sagged to the ground, dragging the man with her. She looked worn and ill, decades older than her picture on the wanted poster. 

"Please," she said, kneeling at his feet. "Please, I beg you, just let us go. All we want is to be left alone. Please - have pity, they will take my son from me..."

"What's happening? Is someone after you?"

He saw them now: a row of juddering flares slowly fanning from the village, men with flash lights combing through the fields.

"They've been tracking us. We used magic, they know there are warlocks here..."

"It's over, mother, we can't get away this time," gasped the man - Thomas, her son. "I'm sorry. They got us now."

She made an awful keening sound, grabbing for him as if armed men were already wrenching her child from her arms.

"No, it's all right," said Merlin quickly. "You keep going. I'll stop them."

He had no fight left in him, nothing to look forward to. But if he could do just one useful thing with all his power - just one in his life - it would have to be enough. 

He walked toward the lights, not turning back to listen to Mary and Thomas bless his kindness or watch them run away. As the soldiers saw him all the lights crossed on his face, blinding him; he heard metallic clicks, and he recognised them to be sounds of guns readied to fire.

"Yes," he said loudly. "It's me. I'm a warlock. I have magic."

He smiled into the white light, lifted his palms to the sky and made colours bloom above his head. Better than any fireworks he'd ever seen, alive and bright, shining joyfully against the black.

Something hit him in the leg. It didn't hurt the way he'd expected, not any more than a bee sting would. He looked down and saw a small orange pompom stuck to his jeans. There was another sting to his shoulder, and then all the lights and colours went out.

He was being moved. Everything was shaking, and there was a roaring mechanical sound that he thought should be familiar, but he didn't have the brainpower to place it. He felt like his head would split open, if not for all the sticky chewy cotton that was swirling inside it. He thought he was going to throw up and tried to roll to the side, but he couldn't move his arms or legs. He managed to open his eyes and saw that he was strapped to a gurney in the back of a van, and there was a man in camouflage, with a helmet and bulletproof vest on, standing above him. The man was holding a gun, and it was trained on Merlin's leg.

"Please, no more," Merlin slurred. He saw the man pull the trigger and didn't even feel the sting as everything went black again.

When he came to again he was still tied to the gurney, but now he was in a very bright room with high ceiling. His parka was gone, and there were needles stuck into his naked arm, with transparent tubes feeding to them from somewhere above.

"No more drugs, please," he begged.

"It's only fluids. You're very dehydrated," said someone.

A man in a white coat leaned over him, his aged face framed by a fall of grey hair. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Um. Okay, I guess? Am I in the Facility?"

The man nodded with a tight-lipped smile. 

"Think of it this way," he said. "At least you don't have to run any longer."

"Yeah," said Merlin. "There is that."

Amazingly, he did feel relieved. The worst had come to pass. There was nothing to fear now.

"What happens now?" he asked, straining weakly against the straps.

The man put a hand on Merlin's forehead, in an oddly gentle and comforting gesture.

"Now you rest."

The man's name was Gaius, and he was in charge of the medical unit. His job was to make sure Merlin was healthy, not contagious, and psychologically stable enough to be released into the general population.

"Let's start on the medical history," he said after Merlin caught a real, not drug-induced nap and felt more like himself again. "I need your full name and three previous addresses, and I need to know how to contact your next of kin. They have to be notified."

"And investigated?"

"This is the procedure, yes. The law enforcement will want to trace your movements and make sure there was no failure to report."   

Merlin licked his lips, still dry and flaky, and stared into the ceiling lights.

"I don't actually remember," he said. "I think I might have amnesia. I know how that sounds, right, nobody has amnesia except in the soaps, but uh. Here I am. With no memory."

Gaius smiled and put his pen down. 

"That's a misconception, actually. Everybody has amnesia."

"They do?"

"Absolutely. Infantile amnesia, the inability to remember anything from before you were three or four years old. As children, we retain those memories, but as adults we can't access them. We remember all the skills we had learned - walking, talking, tying shoelaces - but none of the events, or names, or places. I suppose that's similar to what you're experiencing right now."

"Yes, yes! This is exactly it."

"And retrograde amnesia like yours can be easily explained by all the brain damage your magic might have caused you over the years."

"I don't think I have brain damage," he started before he caught on. "But I'm not a doctor, of course. Maybe I do!"

"Very possibly, we'll look into it. For the time being I'll process you under first name only."

He spent a couple of days in the medical unit, with Gaius pumping him full of vitamins and glucose and taking endless tests. He got untied after a few hours, and was taken down the corridor to decontamination chamber, for some humiliating and rather painful hosing down. Afterwards the guards gave him his new clothes: thin grey underwear and bulky orange uniforms. He got dressed under their bored stares, reminding himself that shame and pride were things one couldn't really have in prison. 

Between the tests the orderlies shaved off his crazy beard and buzzed his head nearly bald. In the mirror he looked barely recognisable: painfully thin, shifty-eyed, with elephantine ears that seemed to overwhelm his angular skinny face. Orange was doing nothing for his complexion, either. 

At night, before they all left, they strapped him down again, but he already was used to sleeping like that. It was almost comfortable this way - peaceful, the straps on his wrists and ankles a constant reminder that he was caught, finally done, a body at rest.  

"Well, I suppose I have to release you now," said Gaius on the third day. "You better go into general population. Segregation units are safer, but they aren't nearly as comfortable."

"No, I want to go, I want to meet everyone. They're like me."

"Not all of them are like you, Merlin. There are very dangerous people there. Murderers, terrorists..."

"But most of them have to be like me. I've never - I need to be with them."

Gaius kept him in until after the lights out, and then the guards gave him his new things - a blanket, a toothbrush, a towel - and led them through the dark, quiet corridors to the main cell block. 

It was huge, lined with cells on several levels. The cells were so small, didn't seem big enough even for one, but almost each held two people. He could see them through the bars: most fast asleep in the beds, but some stirring, rising up to look at him. He couldn't make out the faces in the dark but he tried to smile and nod. They were his new friends; he was going to get along with them.

The guards stopped him at one of the cells and explained where and how he was supposed to stand while the doors where being opened. Once he was inside and the locks slammed shut he expected to feel something. Trapped, chilled by the finality of this. But there was nothing. He was just curious and excited about meeting his cell mate.

The man on the bottom bunk woke up at the clanging of the doors, and was now slowly stretching and sitting up. 

"Is that you, Merlin?" he asked. He looked pleasant enough, a middle-aged portly man with grey curly hair and an extreme case of lazy eye. 

"Yeah, hi! Did they tell you I was coming?"

"They don't tell us jack shit. I saw you. I'm Charlie, I'm a seer. I saw you coming a year ago. Was looking forward to it, you're a nice kid."

They stayed up talking for a few hours, stilling and falling silent as a guard approached. 

Charlie had been in the Facility since it went operational. He'd been transferred from a psychiatric ward where he was held before that. He's been first arrested eighteen years ago for attempting a lottery scam ("That's such bullshit, how's that a scam? I saw the numbers fair and square!"), was released after doing a short stint in prison and locked up again soon afterwards, when the law had been changed to contain all the magic users with criminal tendencies.

"No, being a seer is crap," he said at Merlin's starry-eyed amazement. "Most visions are boring. I'd just see myself in two year's time on the loo, or something like that. Seeing others' future is even worse, because I can't figure out what's going on most of the time. Like watching a bit of a series you know nothing about: who the fuck are all these people, what are they on about?"

"Did you see my future?" Merlin asked, and regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. His future was pretty set in stone now: prison for life, unless something was going to happen to cut his life short, and he didn't want to know about that.

"Saw you fall in love," said Charlie, smirking. "Smitten like a puppy."

"In here?"

"Here, yes. Didn't see the object of your affection though. We have some female guards, but I'm telling you right now, don't fall for a guard. Land of hurt."

"Maybe it's not - a woman."

"If that's how you swing I'm not gonna judge. Have to get your kicks where you can around here."

On the next day he met Edwin.

He was hanging out in the yard with Charlie and his friends. They were all about the same age, some of them having known each other from different prisons and hospitals for nearly two decades, half of their lives. He listened to their lazy chats, mind wandering, when his eyes fell on a man whose face made him shiver.

It was half-covered in horrid, twisting white scars, making his mouth crooked and his eyes seem mismatched. The skin between was shiny and pink, unnaturally stretched. The scars extended to his neck and disappeared under the collar.

The man caught his eyes and walked over to him, smiling politely. The way scars tugged on the corner of his mouth made him look slightly pained, but his eyes were calm and clever, friendly.

"Sorry," muttered Merlin. "I didn't mean to stare."

"It's all right, I'm quite used to it. I haven't seen you around before, have I? My name is Edwin."

"I'm Merlin, hi," they shook hands. There were patches of scar tissue on the back of Edwin's hand, too, but they didn't look that bad.

"So where did you come from, Merlin? I've not heard of any temples being captured lately. Were you one of those who escaped that slaughter in Croydon? Because you'd be happy to know that some of your old friends are here. I can take you to them now, if you like."

"I'm not from a temple. I've never actually been in one. I've barely met anyone with magic before."

"You're untrained? That's a cause for concern. If the guards see anything that looks like magic to them, you'll get in trouble. They won't care that you're unable to control it, they'll brutalise you just the same. Does your magic get loose often?"

"No. Never."

"Oh, that's good, that's very good. But then, how were you discovered?"

"I just got tired of running, I guess. Conjured a bunch of lights in front of the police - I just wanted to..."

Now it sounded rather pathetic, to give up like that, to practically have begged to be locked up for his own good, just like the government said he should be.

"It's all right, Merlin," said Edwin softly. "We all understand. All of us here have known it. Their fear, their hatred, their desire to force us out of their world. It's hard to live among them, knowing how fast they'd turn on you and rip you to pieces if they knew who you really were. There is no shame in wanting to be among your own people, the only ones you can have real human connections with, make friends, feel trust and love. No lies, no hiding. It is a blessing, in a way."

Merlin just nodded, looking at him gratefully. Now that the first shock was over he saw that Edwin was still quite young, maybe around thirty. The side of his face that wasn't disfigured was very handsome, or, rather, pretty, in a refined elfin-like way.

"But how did you learn the light spell? If you didn't have a teacher - could it be that you've found one of the old books? The ones that survived could probably be counted on one hand by now. The destruction of our lore is a tragedy no smaller than the extermination of our people. If there is a book out there that can be saved..."

"No, I just - did it. I don't know any spells."

Edwin stared at him for a while. Scars were making his expression hard to decipher.

"You clearly have no idea how special you are, Merlin," he said. "I can't let your talent be buried. I'm going to teach you. Believe me, you are going to love the spells."

"Warmth spell is probably the simplest one," said Edwin later back in his cell. He didn't have a cell mate, and he invited Merlin to come over and keep him company till lockdown. "That's one of the first things a child normally learns. It doesn't go over forty Celsius or so, it's very safe. And extremely clandestine, which is handy for us."

He took Merlin's hand and whispered a string of sounds into his ear. It was slow and gentle: his palm warmed against Merlin's skin, and wave of tingling heat rolled from it into Merlin's body, spreading through his arm all the way down to his belly. 

"Try that now. You don't have to say it loudly, just shape the words precisely. Would you like me to say them again?"

"No, I think I got it."

Merlin repeated the sounds, barely putting any voice into them, just letting them ghost off his lips, and as he was saying it he understood what it was all about. When he used magic he had to direct it, feel his way around the elements, bend them in the ways that were needed to make things happen. The spell contained all that - all the work had been done before, by the warlocks who lived millennia ago and figured out precisely what effect every sound and thought had on the fabric of all things. Everything was locked down in a rigid pattern of cause and effect, forming a single path for the magic to flow. All he had to do was fill the words with power.

"Very, very good," said Edwin. His face was flushed, with sweat breaking above his lips. Probably too much warmth, but he looked pleased. "You're a fast learner. Why don't you show me something you can do? Something small, that the guards wouldn't see."

Merlin glanced around the bare cell, reached over to the sink - the cells were so tiny he didn't have to get up from the bunk - and picked up Edwin's plastic cup with the toothbrush in it. He held it between them, so it would be blocked from the outside view, and levitated the brush around in the cup, twirling it in circles. 

It was nothing special, but Edwin let out a delighted, disbelieving laugh, and shook his head.

"I don't have the faintest idea how you're doing this," he confessed. "It's - incredible. I've never seen this, I've never even heard of it being possible."

"Well, the way I see it, spells are words, right? Old language, but words. So, spells don't, um, pre-date speech. And magic - of course it does, it's magic. I think before people learned to speak they did it the way I do."

"Most likely, yes," said Edwin thoughtfully and touched Merlin's face, reverently sliding his fingertips down his jaw. "Merlin, you are a treasure. We will achieve great things together."

"We're in prison, Edwin."

"We won't let that stop us."

Soon his head was buzzing with spells, untried and untested possibilities, curiosity and temptation. The cramped cells, the horrid bland food, the rigid routine with a lot of space for boredom, the constant stares of the guards and cameras - none of that bothered him anymore. He even regretted not turning himself in sooner. There was so much to learn here, so many things to talk about. Here he was accepted, respected, even admired for who he was. 

He hadn't got into any trouble yet, and one day he decided to stop being afraid and push his limits. 

He cast a spell right in the middle of the yard, few steps from a guard. A harmless one, so they wouldn't overreact. He conjured a bunny from the dirt and let it hop a few paces before crumbling apart. Then he just stood where he was and held his breath, waiting for the consequences. 

"Oi," said the guard, approaching him leisurely. "You pigs don't learn, do you. No! Magic! Clear?"

He jabbed his stick in Merlin's thigh and pressed the button. 

It was overwhelming only for a second, as he collapsed to the ground, unable to breathe and control his body. The pain started to fade right away, and even though his muscles stayed locked and convulsing for a while, he managed to gulp in some air. He was fine, it was fine, it was bearable. 

"I catch you at it again, I'll zap you twice, got it?"

Merlin nodded and turned his face into the ground so the guard wouldn't see his manic smile. He could cast spells, and this would be the worst thing that would happen. He was free to do magic, with just this small price to pay.

"Merlin, would you like to move in with me?" asked Edwin before his first month inside was over. "I could pull some strings and get you transferred to my cell. You know we're locked in for almost twelve hours daily, this will give us so much time to learn from each other."

He started nodding and grinning before he heard the half of it. Charlie was nice, but Edwin was absolutely amazing, so skilled and intelligent, with limitless knowledge about, it seemed, everything. He was the first person to ever like Merlin not despite the magic but because of it, and the first one who had answers for all the question that had been swarming in Merlin's head for years. He wanted to teach Merlin, encouraged him every step of the way, and there was so much to learn and try - this was going to be brilliant.

"Tonight I shall teach you how to cleanse your body from poisons," said Edwin once the guards cleared out, leaving only the patrol. "Were you tranquillised when they brought you in?"

"Yeah."

"If you had a moment to anticipate it and cast the spell, you'd be protected. There are ways to purge sedatives as well. That's the only drug they use as a means of controlling us, it's important to know how to fight it."

"Really? I thought - Charlie told me they use stuff that messes with your head. Psychotropics, right?"

"Not any longer. Magic isn't in your mind, you know that."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"In fact your conscious mind is the most powerful limiter that can be placed on your magic. They've been experimenting on us for years, trying to destroy our magic with chemicals. Psychoactive drugs were used extensively. The results were never predictable, and very often catastrophic. I'd rather not talk of that in detail, I'm sure you wouldn't want to know."

"Probably not, no."

"In fact, some people were at their most destructive when placed in an artificial coma. Sedatives are relatively safe, but only for a short time, till the mind dulls enough to relinquish its hold on the power. But they know now that the best way to control a sorcerer is through fear."

Merlin nodded and fiddled with the sleeves of his uniform.

"Something's been troubling you," Edwin said softly. "Why can't you tell me? I'm your friend, am I not?"

"Of course."

"Then tell me. There isn't much we can't face together."

"No, it's stupid, it's nothing. Okay, I've heard people talking. They say I'm your bitch. Not to my face, but they do."

Edwin sighed deeply, closed his eyes and shook his head.

"When people are kept in cages and treated like animals, language is the first thing that gets coarse. The hearts are still warm and alive, not hardened by humiliation and captivity, but we are getting crude. Crass. You know they only meant that our relationship is a close one."

"I think they meant we're having sex."

"Ah, yes. I think I understand why this irks at you. You're such a beautiful young man, and they're presuming you couldn't do better than - this," Edwin's hand hovered over the scars and sunk back down listlessly. "But people assume these things. It's not uncommon to turn to your closest friend for comfort in a situation such as ours. We've been sharing a cell for almost a month, and we aren't seen to be looking for recreation with anyone else. Perhaps you should, to dissuade the rumours."

"No, Edwin..."

"No, this is upsetting you and I insist..."

"No, Edwin," Merlin leaned forward and kissed him. At first all he could feel were firm threads of scars pressing to the corner of his lips, but then Edwin kissed him back – gently, softly, his tongue teasing at Merlin's lips in a wet rush of new and thrilling sensation, magic sparkling wild and tingly as their mouths slid together - and he forgot about anything else.

It was nothing like he'd imagined: so, so much more. But then, he'd never really imagined it would be like this - bathed in magic, every nerve plucked taut by the stream of spells that blended into each other. Edwin's fingers were deep inside him, pulsing with heat and power, their bodies a closed circuit for their magic to course through, and build, and build, till it crested impossibly high. 

He tried to make a good impression, be considerate, do something with his hands, his mouth, his magic. But too quickly he was reduced to helpless wriggling on the narrow bunk, his whole body aflame, anything resembling control and conscious thought long forgotten. Every single thing Edwin did felt sweeter and sharper than the previous one, even the things he always thought would be quite uncomfortable and maybe a little gross - it was all so easy, so good, so right. In the middle of it Edwin had to throw a silencing spell on him, and he was grateful, free to scream and laugh into the echoing silence of the night time prison. 

"Charlie told me I'd fall in love here," he said later, his face buried in Edwin's shoulder, the aftershocks still rolling through him, making his body shiver and his magic hum. 

"Mm," said Edwin politely. He seemed very busy licking a wet path down Merlin's arm and streaming small waves of hot and cold down it.

"Maybe it's happening already."

"Hm," he felt Edwin smile against his skin. "Perhaps."

He pulled back and reached to stroke the scars on Edwin's face - on a strange impulse, maybe just to prove they didn't put him off, not even a little. Edwin caught his wrist and shook his head.

"Please don't. It's not very pleasant for me." 

"What does it feel like?"

"Like my skin is inside out there."

"Ugh."

"I'm used to it."

"How did it happen?"

Edwin rolled onto his back and frowned. 

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, I want you to know. It's just a painful memory. I used to live in a temple with my family - I was born there. I haven't seen anything else. We were very happy back then, we had everything we needed. Centuries of work and research performed by our predecessors were ours to study and expand on, add to it piece by precious piece... And of course we had each other. One day the soldiers came. They desecrated our sacred place, destroyed our books and ancient talismans, attacked our priests and students. My parents attempted to stop them. I watched them both burn alive. I tried to save them, but... "

"That's... I'm so sorry, Edwin."

"You don't really know what's been going on, do you, Merlin? Everything you've seen so far is just a tip of the iceberg. Our people are at war, have been for over two decades now. Me and you, all of us here, we're not criminals or headcases as the press tells them, we all are prisoners of war. We are soldiers in this fight, just by our birthright, whether we like it or not. This is why we're treated like this. This is why we're here."

He met Merlin's eyes, his face dark and serious, hardened in the way Merlin hadn't seen him before. 

"You have the right to know everything they did," he said. "Because they did it to you, as well. You were born into a ravaged world; everything that should have been yours - your very freedom, your right to exercise your power - was taken from you before you even knew it existed. It won't be easy, but be strong, listen. I'll tell you everything. And as I tell you this, remember, there is hope. We won't give up. We won't let our people and the very memory of us be destroyed. We are the voice and the will of the magic, ancient and eternal. We will survive."

 


	7. Sanctuary

When Muirden requested for the new boy to be his cell mate, which had to mean 'personal fuck toy', Uther actually laughed in his face. Of all the inmates Muirden was the one least likely to be receiving any favours from him, and they both knew it perfectly well. 

Muirden didn't even bring any bargaining chips to the table. He didn't offer to uncover an escape plot or give up a safehouse on the outside. He simply asked, and then waited patiently in front of Uther's desk, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed - the very picture of a model inmate.

It was, however, clear that there were no downsides in granting his wish, but ample opportunities. Muirden's influence on the others was too great for comfort, and Uther had been working on him for a long time now. But so far he couldn't claim any significant victories. Muirden was completely insane, lacking any spark of human emotion, as if anything Uther could use - fear, self-preservation instincts, pride, greed - had been burned away by the fire that scorched his face. Uther had a theory that Muirden might have let his bugs into his own brain, to eat away any soft spots and weaknesses. But now finally there was something, now he was vulnerable. His desire for this boy could be exploited. 

Uther had seen the new inmate, and had a cursory glance through his file. He was very pretty, unspoiled innocence shining in every line of his face - must have been a tempting find for a deviant like Edwin. But better still, the boy was as soft as they came: fragile, sheltered, easily frightened, slow and naive, trusting and harmless. If Uther was choosing an ideal cell mate for Muirden, he couldn't have picked better himself. It was almost too good to be true, but better men than Muirden had been blinded by lust and made mistakes.

He finished laughing and approved the cell transfer. He left plenty of time for the things to simmer and settle, and after a month or so summoned Merlin into his office.

The inmate was obviously nervous, fidgeting and glancing around like he already knew he was in trouble. Uther let him stew for a while in front of his desk, leisurely going through the paperwork, and then motioned for a guard to remove the handcuffs. 

"Hands behind your back where I can see them," warned the guard and moved back to the doors. Merlin relaxed a little, clearly relieved, and carried on rubbing at his wrists behind his back. This had to be his first experience with the special restraints.

"You've been here for a while now," said Uther. "I think it's time we had a little chat."

Merlin met his eyes for a second and shiftily looked away, nodding meekly. This was going to be too easy.

"I see you're sharing a cell with Edwin Muirden."

He held a pause, staring till the boy looked almost panicked.

"Yes, sir," Merlin finally said, his voice quivering even on the straight answer.

"Well, I am concerned that this might not be the best arrangement. I have received a lot of complaints about him in the past, from the young men such as yourself."

"Have you?" asked Merlin quietly, ducking his head down and biting his lips. "Well, I'm not complaining."

It sounded almost cheeky, almost like he was suppressing a smile. That wasn't unexpected. Muirden could be charming.

"He's much older than you," said Uther in his softest voice. "It's easy for him to abuse your friendship. If he's making you do something you're not comfortable with, you should tell me. I can help you."

"I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions. Sir."

"I doubt that. I don't think Edwin has been honest with you. You seem like a good man, Merlin, and I don't think you'd be defending him if you knew who he really is."

"He's my friend."

"Merlin, I'm trying to help you. I know you think you're very smart and mature. All boys your age do, but you still need guidance and advice. I assume that's what you think Edwin is giving you, but he's using you. He's playing on your lack of experience and need to be loved."

Merlin shifted from foot to foot, slumped a little, trying to get comfortable standing there with his hands behind his back. He was getting tired. Softened up.

"I can't help but feel protective of you, Merlin. I'm a father, you know, I have a son about your age. His name is Arthur," he turned the picture on his desk to let Merlin see.

"He's very handsome," Merlin said politely.

"His mother was killed by magic before Arthur had a change to get to know her. She was killed by people like Edwin."

Merlin stopped avoiding Uther's eyes, and now that he wasn't looking shifty he just looked extraordinary stupid, his face almost blank, eyes clear and unclouded by thought. He had to be mentally challenged, no matter what Gaius's reports said, but that was fine, that would only make him more useful.

"You deserve to know the truth. Come closer," Uther pulled Edwin Muirden's file from his desk where he had it at the ready, with the best pictures clipped to the front pages. "You can read all of it. Have a seat and take your time."

Merlin cautiously unclasped his hands, threw a worried glance at the guard and dragged a chair over. He turned a few pages, skimming them quickly, looked at the pictures. Those images made seasoned detectives lose their lunch, but the little cretin just stared at them dumbly and went back to reading.

"Do you see now? He's a monster. All those innocent people... And I believe he's plotting something awful again. I need your help, Merlin. We have to stop him. And for that I need information only you can provide. You're the one closest to him - "

"I'm sorry, sir, there's something I don't understand," said Merlin, turning another page.

"What is it, tell me and I'll try to explain," Uther offered patiently.

"Why do you think I'll believe my jailer over my friend?" Merlin asked, blinking at him with those stupid, empty blue eyes. For a short moment Uther had a suspicion that the idiot look was nothing but an act, but that would be giving the inmate too much credit. 

"The proof is in front of you," he said, keeping his temper in check. "These are all official reports, everything in this file had been documented meticulously. All of this happened, he did all of this."

"It's not proof. It's only text and pictures."

Merlin's hand hovered over the page, and the lines blurred for a moment and changed. The photograph lightened, the shapes blending together, and finally Uther recovered from the shock and yanked the file out of the inmate's hands.

The image of the mutilated bodies had transformed into a picture of horses frolicking in a field. All the text on the page was replaced by endless repeats of 'Edwin is my friend, and I trust him', unpleasantly reminiscent of an old horror movie.

Merlin stared at him blankly. He clearly wasn't even smart enough to comprehend direct consequences of his actions.

"Guard," Uther said. "The inmate used magic."

He watched with some satisfaction as the guard kicked the boy off the chair and administered a few shocks. Merlin curled up on the floor, shaking and making small pained sounds, and didn't struggle as he was handcuffed and pulled up again.

"This is a serious breach of discipline, Merlin," Uther said. "I'll have to punish you."

Merlin's eyes darted to the guard's stick and he ducked his head into his shoulders, expecting another jolt. 

"No, this clearly isn't doing it for you. I've had far too many reports from the guards about you using magic. It's all in your file. Looks like it's time for the box."

"Th-the box?" stuttered Merlin, obviously, satisfyingly frightened.

"Yes. Have the others told you? We have a solitary unit for the especially stubborn. It's made entirely of meteoric iron, same material as these handcuffs. Do you feel that? I'm told it's very unpleasant. Imagine being surrounded by it."

The boy looked like he imagined it very clearly, and was desperate now, ready to break. 

"The box is not very big," Uther pressed on. "I hope you're not claustrophobic. I could forgive you if you give me something useful on Muirden. But it has to be good. Think, Merlin, do you have something good for me?"

"No, sir," Merlin muttered. "I don't."

"Well. Next time we speak make sure you do. There will be a next time, Merlin. This is just a taste."

He watched as the guard hauled wide-eyed, terrified Merlin away and considered the meeting a success. This kid was going to be feeding him inside information before the week was over.   
 

  
Two months later he'd made absolutely no progress and he was starting to lose his patience. In a rather desperate move he sent for Muirden and attempted a bluff.

"Your little friend Merlin told me many interesting things about you," he said. "But I'm going to give you a chance to save your skin before I file a request to have you put down like the rabid dog you are. Give me the others, and I might spare you."

"I'll pass," said Muirden. "My death won't change anything, you know. Actually, no, it will! It will greatly aid the cause. Oh, Uther, you are truly a genius when it comes to radicalising the fringe. I still have much to learn from you."

He smiled widely, his grotesque face pulled oddly by the scar tissue. He knew Uther still had nothing on him, that was obvious.

"He will talk very soon," Uther said. "He's at his limit. Last time he was here he cried and begged to be spared."

"Of course he cried. He's not prideful, when he's hurting he cries. And of course he begged, he still foolishly believes that you're a human being capable of compassion. But you really picked the wrong man to terrorize. You see, Merlin is very sweet, and a little gullible, yes. But when he makes his mind up on something he wouldn't budge whatever you try, it's like hitting a wall. I know, I have. He's open to new ideas, but once we reach the issue on which we differ I just can't seem to persuade him. I suppose I should thank you, because right now you're making my point for me very, very eloquently."

"Oh? And what's that, pray tell?"

"You're proving to him that we shouldn't feel any remorse for you, because you don't have any remorse for us. As you torture that sweet young man, you shape him into a warrior. I really shouldn't be telling you this. I ought to stand by and watch as he comes into his true power and realises his destiny, I know that all this will only make him stronger. But I'm genuinely fond of him, and I'd rather you stopped. You'll get nothing out of him. You know I'm right."

He stuck Edwin in the box for three days, and then watched, furious, as he strutted around the yard, unruffled as always, all the others revering him as a martyr. Merlin was at his side, their hands clasped together.

Twenty minutes after the next time he sent Merlin to the box, even before he made a note in the file, Gaius came into his office without requesting an audience.

"Sir, I have some serious medical concerns about one of the inmates," he said. "I'd like to hospitalise Merlin for treatment, and I must insist that he not be disciplined till I give him a clean bill of health." 

"There is nothing wrong with him."

"He's dangerously underweight. Any kind of restrictive diet can do permanent damage to his health."

"He's only skipping a few meals a week. Gaius, he's always been scrawny."

"Precisely. This has been a long-standing problem with his health, and it needs to be addressed immediately. His injuries aren't healing quickly enough, and more than that, the box - sir, I have no idea what exactly is it doing to them, but it's doing something. It causes distress to all systems, and I can't allow him to be subjected to that any longer. This is my medical opinion. It's all in my report."

He put a folder on Uther's desk. 

"Noted. If that's all I won't keep you any longer."

"Sir, I regret to say that if you don't follow my recommendations I will be forced to resign. Effective immediately. I am responsible for the health of the inmates, and I don't want to be charged with malpractice when this incident is investigated. And I'm afraid there will be a cause for an investigation if we don't give Merlin urgent medical care he needs. I'm going to file a copy of this report with the Commission to explain my decision."

"Gaius, stop this nonsense, he's perfectly fine."

"I just can't watch this anymore," whispered the old man, his face quivering. "I'm sorry, Uther, this is wrong."

"You'd betray me over an inmate?"

"I know we've done worse things in the past, and I helped you and covered for you. But he's just a boy. He's a gentle soul, he's never hurt anyone. Please, Uther."

He didn't believe that Gaius would go through with this ridiculous stand, the man could normally be swayed quite easily. But he didn't want to lose an old friend over this. 

He went to the box himself to have the last go at making the boy cooperate, hoping the setting would play in his favour. When he peeked in through the vents Merlin was curled up against the wall, too tall to stretch out inside, one foot twitching nervously against the plastic bucket in the corner. As the guards pulled the iron door open, he flinched hard and rolled up in a ball, covering his head with his arms. Uther felt a surge of possessive rage.

"I will review the camera footage and find out who's been abusing my prisoner," he told the guards.

"No, no, sir, they're always like that when you open it. Overwhelmed, like," said one of them earnestly, without a twinge of guilt on his face. "We wouldn't, not him, he's a nice kid."

Merlin stopped shivering and lifted his head. Uther surveyed him critically. He did look a bit thin and pale and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken, but he didn't seem ill, at least not ill enough to need urgent medical attention.  

"I'll give you one more chance," he said. "And then I'm going to stop coddling you and trust me, you won't like what's coming next."

"You really should leave me alone," said Merlin flatly. He looked different somehow. There was something deathly still about his face, something in the set of his jaw that made Uther a little uneasy. Merlin's eyes weren't glazed over stupidly like they were most of the time. They were very cold and devoid of any fear. And there was more, Uther could feel it - there was something in there with the boy, suspended in the stinky air of the solitary, curled invisibly around his feet, something angry and waiting. He felt that before, a very long time ago. 

He ordered the guards to take Merlin to the infirmary right away, and wrote the whole thing off as a dead end. That idiot probably was too useless to gather any good information, in any case.

Next time it was Merlin who requested to see him, a few months later.

"Now you're ready to talk?" Uther asked, amused. 

"Sir, I'd like to be placed into segregation," said Merlin quickly. He's been rehearsing this speech. "I have reasons to fear for my life and safety. Please could I go into protective custody?"

"Not till you tell me who's been threatening you."

"They were anonymous threats, sir."

"Well, did you bring any proof? Threatening notes, dead fish, horse heads?" 

This was hilarious, and the boy seemed more rattled now than Uther had ever seen him be. Now he really looked like he was cracking. His eyes were dark and he couldn't stay still, rocking on his feet, his neck taut and jaws clenched hard. They must have scared him good and proper.

"No. They were - magical threats."

"Then there isn't much I can do for you, I'm afraid."

"Please. Please, just this once, I'm begging you. I can't stay there."

"You've found out something, haven't you? Muirden told you something about his plans, and now you're scared. Now you want out. Well, it's too late for that, Merlin. You're all the way in, unless I say otherwise. Tell me what you know."

"Nothing that you don't. It's all in his file," said Merlin bitterly. "You were right. He's a monster. I can't stay there any longer. Please, just lock me up, don't send me back to him."

"You'll have to earn that. Unless you have something to bargain with, you're going right back into that cell to your murderous lover. I think I might order a cell lockdown for a couple of days, to really give the two of you some together time."

Merlin's throat made a croaking sound that could've been choked laughter. 

"Right," he said quietly. "Of course."

"You understand now what's going on, don't you? They are planning a riot. If they go through with it, a lot of people will die. And once the riot is beaten down, I will have the green light to dispose of all those responsible. And you will be right there, by his side, and you'll be complicit in everything he does. Unless you give up the instigators right now and testify in front of the Commission, you will burn along with them."

"No. I'll have no part in that. I won't be there."

He unclasped his hands from behind his back, and even as the guard shouted a warning he thrust his arm forward and uttered a single word in an odd hissing tongue.

All the paperwork on Uther's desk burst into flames. For a few seconds he could barely believe his eyes, watching dumbly as fire consumed the freshly signed papers, curled up his leather stationery set and engulfed Arthur's framed picture. The guard had already wrestled Merlin down and handcuffed him; as Uther buzzed the alarm and five more men came running in he left one of them to douse the desk with the fire extinguisher and walked over to the rest, to watch them administer shocks and kick the squirming inmate in the ribs. 

"What do we do, sir?" asked one of them. "Solitary?"

"Oh, no. He's going back to his cell. This stunt isn't going to work, Merlin."

Merlin grunted and twisted furiously in the guards' hold, and next moment Uther was flying backwards through the air. His back hit the wall, hard; he was suspended a foot above the floor, not able to move a muscle. There was pressure on his chest, growing with every second, pushing him against the wall till he could barely manage an inhale.

Some guards ran over to him and began to tug uselessly on his arms and legs, trying to dislodge him. That only hurt worse. The rest were across the room, beating Merlin without any of their usual detached laziness. He was still conscious, still crying out and moving – but any moment he would pass out and the spell would be broken. The pressure now was enough that Uther felt his ribs slowly caving in.

There was a sound like a dozen shock batons discharging at once, and Uther saw tiny blue arcs of lightning flow across the floor, radiating from Merlin. He didn't have the breath to call out and warn anyone. The lightning reached the guards, and all the men collapsed in seconds. As they convulsed on the floor, feebly attempting to get up, Merlin rolled up onto his knees to face Uther. The boy's eyes were horrifying: they'd gone pale yellow, shimmering, utterly beyond human.

"Solitary," said Merlin. Uther felt his heart stutter under the brutal force pressing down on him, and nodded as much as he still could. 

He was released and slid down the wall, coughing and wheezing. The guards were picking themselves up slowly, but none of them seemed very eager to subdue the prisoner again.

"You've attacked me," Uther said. Talking hurt, but he wasn't going to let it show on his face. "I can have you put down. I can put a bullet through your head right now, it's well within my right."

Merlin sat on his heels with his back straight despite his hands chained behind him, calm and motionless, waiting. His eyes were still yellow, animal-like.

"Put him in the box till further notice. I'll decide what to do with him later."

Merlin rose to his feet and let the guards lead him out. At the doors he threw one last glance at Uther and inclined his head in a mockery of a bow. 

Uther watched on the security monitor as Merlin was locked up. The boy looked so young and skinny on cameras, so harmless. As the cage door slammed shut and all the locks slid home, Uther expected to feel safe again. But a worrisome feeling of foreboding wouldn't leave him alone.  

The riot began two hours later.

It happened incredibly fast, with amazing efficiency. They've been preparing for this for a long time. They could have been planning this since the day the Facility went operational and the first batch of them woke up in here as their tranquillizers wore off. 

When the first alarm sounded he glanced at the monitors just in time to see them opening the cells. As he watched the bars twist, break and melt down to the floor, he remembered having a recurring nightmare about this. 

They came out, unhurriedly, stretching their arms, flexing their wrists, stepping over the corpses of the guards who were in the cell block when it began. One of them raised both his arms high in the air; white tendrils of electricity flickered between his fingers, and the cameras went dead. 

By the time Uther got to the guard station it was already burning, and now the fire was spreading along the walls, obscuring the view and choking him with smoke. The phone landlines were silent; his mobile and radio weren't working. He saw a few corpses of the guards, mangled and twisted, and another guard screaming in a hallway, clawing at his own face, beyond help. The rest were missing - managed to escape, or had been taken away.

As he ran back toward the medical unit, praying that at least the doctors were still alive, he came across the inmates for the first time - just a few of them, maybe four. He only saw orange blurs at the end of the hallway, beyond the flames and the smoke, heading in his direction. He emptied his gun at them and reached for the spare clip, peering through to see if he got anyone. A wave of red energy lashed the concrete under his feet, and he turned and ran. 

The sprinklers finally kicked in, and now his suit was drenched, weighing him down. He still had six bullets. If he could get to the doctors, they could try to shoot their way to the segregation and barricade in there till help arrived. Help would arrive, in the morning at the latest, people would know something went wrong in here.

He passed several more corpses of the guards. There were less than he feared - the day shift had left already, leaving only the smaller night crew. He tried not to linger, not to look at them, not to see what was done to them. There was a huge snake coiled on the chest of one of the dead. It snapped at his leg as he ran past, missing him narrowly. The voices and the sounds of explosions were getting closer; he heard gunfire a few times, always followed by gurgling screams. 

He didn't make it to the medical unit. They cornered him at the end of a hallway and spread in a wide half circle around him, not attacking, savouring the moment.

"Fifteen years I've waited for this," said Muirden. "Fifteen years. Finally."

The others were talking too, screaming, rattling off accusations. Their faces blurred into one in his eyes, all wearing identical expressions, all drunk on blood and burning with hate, muttering spells in warlock tongue. He fired twice; both bullets exploded in the air as they left the barrel. The shrapnel cut his cheek, and before he could pull the trigger again the gun turned red hot in his hand and he dropped it, bits of skin coming off his palm where it burned onto the metal.

His legs were about to give out and he propped himself against the wall, determined to die standing. Igraine's face flashed through his mind, clear and perfect, clearer than any photographs he had of her, and then merged into Arthur's, the way he was at the age of ten, tiny, fearless and full of adventurous energy. He thought of them to block out the voices of the inmates, not to listen to the warlocks arguing about how to best torture him before they killed him. Some started to lose patience and were throwing spells at him: jolts of pain, handfuls of fire, lashes of light that made shallow cuts in his flesh. He bore them silently, unflinching - his dignity was all he had to hold on to now.

Foolishly, cowardly, he was hoping to die quickly, or at least to faint easily and be out of it for the parts of what was to come. But he knew all too well that with Muirden's medical expertise they could keep him alive for a very long time, through unimaginable things. Even as the pain grew so much he could barely keep quiet, as he felt the darkness pressing in and his grip on consciousness wavering, the cold water constantly beating on his face still kept him awake.

Suddenly something changed. There was no new pain, and the noise of the water had stopped. The sprinklers had shut off, abruptly and all at once, and the fire that still burned along the walls died down instantly. The spells flying at him fizzled out in the air, and the warlocks who cast them stared down at their hands in confusion. 

"What's going on?" said someone. "I can't..."

"Wait," came the voice from behind them, from down the hall. It carried strangely well, echoing off the walls they way their yells hadn't. 

Someone was walking toward them, his feet making tiny splashing noises in the puddles. His footsteps were the only sound in the sudden dead silence. The man was tall and lithe, and he moved through the smoky air with easy grace and deadly composure. He looked almost weightless, darkly radiant, otherworldly, beautiful and terrifying. The crowd of inmates parted to let him through without questions, without a word. 

Uther didn't even recognise Merlin till he saw the ears.

There was nothing human in his face, no expression Uther could discern. Merlin shouldn't have even been here - but of course they must have let him out. Everyone was staring at him in reverent silence, holding their breaths.

"Emrys," someone finally whispered, and a murmur rolled through the crowd, excited and joyous. Merlin didn't spare them a moment's glance. His eyes looked like molten metal churning in a blast furnace: deadly heat beyond anything a man could relate to. 

"It's over," said Merlin and raised his hand. 

Uther closed his eyes.

There was water trickling on his face again. He thought that the sprinklers might have restarted, and then realised he was still alive and there was more still to come. He opened his eyes and saw endless lines of rain streaming from the black sky, disappearing between the stars.

He was lying on the ground outside the Facility's fence. There were more people sprawled around him, stirring slowly: some guards, a few doctors. Gaius was here, and Uther crawled closer to the man to check on him. His whole body ached as if he'd been dragged over rocks.

Gaius was coming to, slowly, screwing his face up in pain. He had a bleeding gash on his forehead and his white coat was scorched in places. 

"It was Merlin, wasn't it," Gaius muttered as soon as he opened his eyes. "Merlin saved our lives. They were about to kill me, and he..."

The guards were pulling themselves up, looking around, confused and disoriented, all cringing and wincing with every move. The phones were working now. Uther needed to start making calls.

If it were up to him, he'd order an aerial strike on the compound - right now, before they had a chance to disperse through the countryside - and be done with it. But he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

The hastily established perimeter was flimsy and Uther couldn't help but think that all those soldiers he had surrounding the fence were dead meat, cannon fodder for the spell-happy warlocks inside. The inmates were still inside, or at least satellite imagery seemed to indicate that they were. Not that imagery could be trusted: he still remembered Merlin conjuring up a picture of happy horses, effortlessly, on a whim. It had never changed back to the forensic photograph it used to be. But there hadn't been any reported sightings of the inmates lurking free, and the perimeter defences were never attacked. 

By the noon next day he was pacing by the main entrance, waiting for the tanks to arrive, when the gates suddenly opened. Muirden stood on the ramp, alone, smiling into the sights of the guns trained on him. 

"I wouldn't shoot if I were you," he said. "It would ricochet. Uther, a word, please."

"I'm not going to negotiate with you," he said, feeling dangerously exposed despite a small army by his side ready to provide cover fire.

"Oh, this isn't a negotiation. I only wish to relay a message."

"A message? From whom?"

"I think you know."

Uther nodded to his men and stepped closer to the gates.

"You were spared so you could bear witness to what has happened here," Muirden said. "We feel that our vengeance can be postponed. For now, we offer a truce."

"No."

"It's up to you, but I think you should hear us out. This place is ours now. This fence has been made impenetrable, you can't get in unless we let you, and you can't harm us. This is now our sanctuary. You can continue bringing more of our people to us, we'll take them all in. Out there you wouldn't leave us be, but in here we can be safe, and we can be together. In recognition of our status you will supply us with electricity, water and food, and if you don't start within twenty four hours, or if you ever stop, or if you ever attack us we'll all leave the confines of the fence and rejoin the fight. And you know now what we can do."

Now Uther could see a transparent shimmering film stretched over the gates like a curtain, separating him from Muirden. Uther reached out with his hand to touch it, but thought better of it. 

"Yes," said Muirden. "This is our shield. We'll give you an hour to experiment with it. Just make sure not to fire anything at a straight angle, I wasn't kidding about the ricochets. We will open a breach right here, every day at sunset, and we'll allow two of your men to come in and bring us supplies. Today we'll allow two of your men to come in and collect your dead. We return their bodies to their families as a gesture of good will."

"If you think for one second that I'm going to comply..."

"Uther, listen to me," said Muirden in an urgent whisper. "This isn't a part of the message. Remember when I told you that you would turn Merlin into a warrior? Well, what we have on our hands is a walking nuke of raw magic. I didn't expect this. If he goes to war now, the world will burn around him. Don't make him angry. Even I don't like him when he's angry."

"You're scared of Merlin?"

"Aren't you?" said Muirden with a little hysterical laughter. "Aren't you, Uther?"

Finally Uther saw what he was trying to achieve for several years - a look of genuine fear on the face of Edwin Muirden, well-hidden but present. It didn't bring him any satisfaction.

"He wants this for now. I say we let him have it," Muirden said.

"You're a messenger boy for your catamite. How the mighty have fallen."

"Nobody else has the guts to go near him right now."

Uther remembered the boy's yellowed eyes, and the way his ribs were slowly caving into his chest as Merlin knelt on the floor, calmly watching him suffocate, and the crowd of deranged murderers parting before him like faithful subjects. 

"If any of you ever steps beyond this fence, they will be shot on sight," he said. "Anyone who harbours a warlock from now on will be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. If you ever attack my people..."

"Yes, yes, I'll let you have the last word," said Muirden, waving at him dismissively. "I know it's important to you. Sunset. I'll see you then."

The report Uther wrote was a thing of beauty, outlining wonderfully all the benefits of letting the inmates manage themselves inside the perimeter. It could even be considered more humane, which would appease the left. And if the captive warlocks would happen to tear each other to pieces like scorpions in a jar, that would only prove that they weren't fit for society, not even each other's. 

The press coverage of the riot concentrated on the atrocities committed by the inmates and on the smart, innovative decision of the Commission to operate the Cheshire Facility remotely, to reduce costs and risks. Uther hadn't told anyone about Merlin, and had sworn Gaius to secrecy. He hadn't seen the boy since the riot - he was never by the gates when the breach was open - and Uther had rather hoped that the others had tired of being afraid and found a way to get rid of him. When Arthur brought up Merlin's name Uther's first instinct, as always when in doubt, was to avoid too much lying but reveal as little of the truth as was possible. He hoped he painted the right picture for the occasion: of a dimwitted, useless inmate who was best left alone. Really, that would be for the best.

 


	8. Boundary

Merlin slept till well past noon. Since the riot he'd perfected the art of sleeping for ten hours a day at least, and sometimes could manage twelve in a row. There wasn't much else to do, and anything he could use to break up his day had to be spaced out evenly and savoured for all it was worth. Ever since he all but stopped talking to the others and had memorised all the books he had interest in reading the most exciting activity he had left was eating. And he was never that into food.

He woke up slowly, and lazed on his bunk with his eyes closed, hoping to doze off again. Mordred wasn't in bed with him, which was unusual. Mordred always got up early and went outside around dawn time, probably to do something Druidic. But then he would come back and tuck himself against Merlin's side again, and stay there, warm and quiet, for a few hours more.

Merlin didn't mind. Sometimes the need for privacy would be immediate like a physical ache, and he would push everyone away and spend a day or night on the roof, often standing in a pouring raid he'd summon to match his mood, keeping himself warm with spells even as his skin chilled till it felt too tight for his body. But mostly he liked Mordred's silent company. Nobody else wanted to be near Mordred since he arrived here, not even the other druids, just like nobody really wanted to be near Merlin since the day of the riot. That suited them both perfectly. They didn't need anybody else.

Suddenly he remembered, and jerked fully awake against the sinking feeling of impending disaster.

When he'd gone to sleep, the top bunk was sagging under the weight of Arthur's heavy, muscled body. It had been easier to handle yesterday, with Mordred breathing softly by his side, but being alone in the room made him too conscious of Arthur being so close, suspended above him. If he made the top bunk disappear, Arthur would fall on top of him. He actually had to concentrate on not making that happen.

He'd spent a good part of the night staring upwards in the dark, imagining the outlines of Arthur's back on top of the mattress, trying to map out movements of his limbs every time the bed frame creaked. This whole thing wasn't working out the way he expected it to.

All he wanted was to keep everyone safe. It wasn't right to let a man be tortured just because he got stuck with Uther Pendragon for a father, that wasn't his fault. Merlin thought he'd keep Arthur with him, under his protection, for a few days. Just till everyone got used to his presence and the idea of making him suffer for their amusement lost its fresh appeal. And then – well, then something would happen, things would sort themselves out. Planning far ahead was never his forte.

He'd expected Arthur Pendragon to spend his time in the Facility being quiet, shaken up, keeping his head down. Easy to ignore. Knowing Uther, it was possible that his son had inherited some of his personality traits, and would take finding himself safe and protected as his cue to be obnoxious and resentful. It didn't matter. Merlin wasn't doing any of it to earn anybody's gratitude.

He hadn't expected Arthur to be anything like this.

The top bunk was now empty. Mordred sat on the floor by the wall, doing something highly involved to his toy knights. He threw Merlin a quick smile over his shoulder and turned back to his work.

"Where's Arthur?" Merlin asked.

 _"Underground,"_ said Mordred's voice inside his head.

"What? Why?"

 _"He's looking for something."_

Mostly he liked mind-speaking and there were days, sometimes weeks, when they communicated only by snippets of thought pushed inside each other's heads. But sometimes it just was unnecessarily creepy.

He touched at Mordred's mind, trying for more, and got an image of Arthur wandering around the basement, tracing the routes of the water pipes along the walls and uncertainly poking at the machinery.

 _"He'll get hurt,"_ he thought at Mordred furiously.

 _"They wouldn't. He's yours."_

 _"You don't like him, do you?"_ he asked quickly. Sometimes an element of surprise would get him a more direct answer. It worked, in a way: he got a sudden flood of thoughts and memories. Arthur's voice, serious and impressed, as he talked about Mordred's art projects, the sound of his amused laughter, Arthur's eyes, sharp and clever, the tilt of his head as he listened to what was said around him, carefully talking it all in; the long half-lidded look he'd sometimes give Merlin – trying to figure him out, perhaps. Arthur's face, chalk white and wrecked, locked in fierce concentration, as they saw him for the first time: half-naked, beaten, shaking, ready to fight again.

Mordred shut him out so fast that it felt like a sting to his mind.

 _"No. I don't like him,"_ he thought at Merlin sulkily. _"He doesn't belong here. But you have needs, I get that."_

 _"It's not like that..."_

Mordred turned around and looked at him reproachfully, and Merlin sighed and conceded the point. It was quite a bit like that, even though he wasn't going to act on it, ever. Arthur was a very handsome man, and everyone around here expected him to take advantage. Even Arthur himself. He could see that.

"I better go find him," he sighed.

Mordred's back was turned to him, narrow and hunched over, his shoulder blades sticking out sharply under the coarse orange uniforms. Merlin petted his hair on the way out of the cell, and Mordred leaned into it slightly, but ducked away almost immediately, looking annoyed. He must be already getting too old for cuddles.

Arthur was still in the basement. He had finished exploring and was now taking apart some metal box, wrestling the screws undone with his fingers and a broken plastic spoon.

He wasn't alone. There was about twenty others in the room, sat along the walls, watching Arthur work. They were talking among themselves, discussing him: the speed at which his bruises were healing, whether or not he was limping from being well used, what part of his body Merlin considered his best feature. Arthur was ignoring them easily, without even tensing up. He took a step backwards for more leverage against the panel he was wrangling open, and a sneakily thrown spell swept his legs from underneath him, creating a vicious momentum.

Arthur fell heavily and landed hard on his back, accompanied by guffawing laughter from all the spectators. It took him a good few seconds to get his breath back. He got up slowly, surrounded by mocking sniggering, red-faced and furious, clenching his fists.

"How clumsy of me," he said finally and bent toward the panel again.

Another spell swished across the room, aiming at the backs of his knees. Arthur grabbed onto a pipe, side-stepped the blow, almost managing to avoid being jostled, and stayed on his feet.

"I don't want to catch any of you doing this again," said Merlin from the doorway. Phil quickly tucked his hands between his knees and attempted to look innocent.

"Don't let him wander off if you don't want him hurt," said Tauren glumly. "Tempting people like that is irresponsible."

Arthur turned to Merlin at the sound of his voice and stood there, silent and expressionless, clearly not sure how to even talk to him in front of the others. Merlin didn't quite know how to act with all of them watching, either.

"What are you doing here, Arthur?" he said as neutrally as he could.

"I'm trying to fix the heating," Arthur answered eagerly, happy for an easy topic to discuss. "I think I've found the boiler! Now it's gotta be something simple, like flipping a switch. Or a loose wire. We'll get it going again in no time."

"We don't need the boiler to work," said Tauren. "Merlin, please. If you want to keep him, keep him in your room. I don't have a quarrel with him, but the more I look at him traipsing around, sticking his nose into our business..."

"Why do you have a problem with me fixing a boiler, anyway?" asked Arthur, whirling around to face Tauren. "What is it you have against central heating and hot water?"

"We don't need it. A warmth spell is the first one a child learns."

"So in winter you just sit in your own warmth and not shower? That's really gross."

"Nice, finely honed bigotry there from Pendragon the youngest, his father taught him well. But he needs to start learning to respect our culture if he's going to live among us. Merlin, you should be telling him this, not me."

"It's nothing to do with culture! It's a bloody boiler!"

"Arthur," said Merlin. "Leave it."

"Merlin, with your permission, I'd like to ask him a question," said Tauren.

"Be my guest," sighed Merlin. This was going to get tiresome very quickly. He didn't want to hurt Tauren. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He's had enough of that a long time ago.

"You don't need permission to talk to me," said Arthur. It was like his mouth was on inertia and wouldn't stop running off; he'd just keep digging himself in deeper till somebody knocked him unconscious and put them all out of this misery.

"You don't know what I need. You have no idea what any of us need or want. Do you even understand how much you're insulting us all? How dare you assume we need your help with this, or anything else? Why would you think there is something all of us couldn't achieve in a year that you'll be able to fix?"

"This is technology," said Arthur, unwavering. "It's the opposite of magic, isn't it? I have more affinity with it than any of you do. What, I'm not an idiot, this is something I can help with."

Tauren stared at him till Merlin was taut with tension, a spell ready and twitching on his lips. And then Tauren bent forward, dropped his head on his crossed arms where they rested on his knees and started laughing, bitterly, brokenly, almost sobbing.

"Oh, child," he said. "What a strange world you grew up in."

Arthur shrugged, pulled the last screw free and jiggled the panel open.

"Aha," he said triumphantly, flipping the switches around and pulling on the wires. "Right. Oh. What's this?"

"That's the motherboard," said Tauren. "Don't touch anything there, you've no idea what you're doing."

"Oh, and you do?"

"I've got a PhD in engineering," said Tauren. "I left the temple and my family when I was fourteen, to study technology and the ways it can be fused with magic. The practical applications would be limitless, the possibilities were..."

He sighed and fell silent, staring through the wall.

"I see," said Arthur after holding a polite pause. "Okay, I didn't know – I always thought once you start doing magic that's all you ever can do. That it changes you."

"The thesis that magic alters the psychological make-up of a person to the point where one is unsuited to most professional fields is a relatively new one," Tauren said. "I was arrested when it was still controversial. Not any more, it seems."

"How come you couldn't fix this thing, then? Does it need replacement parts? We can ask my father..."

"I didn't spend seventeen years studying so I could fix boilers in prison."

"You've not even tried? Look, no disrespect, I understand your point, this hasn't exactly been my whole life's aspiration, either. But I'm at least trying. I'm not going to give up because this work is beneath me. It still needs doing."

"He's an odd one, isn't he, Merlin?" Tauren said. "I think I see now why you're so smitten."

"Like a puppy," said Charlie from a corner and grinned at Merlin triumphantly. "There we go."

It was such an old memory. From a different lifetime, when things were so simple. Merlin still remembered his first day in here, resignation mingled with new hopes, and this promise for the future: that he'd fall in love among these walls.

He'd never been completely sure if he ever was in love with Edwin. He'd wanted to be, and at the time he believed he could be. But ever since he understood who Edwin really was, since he realised that all those spells Edwin had been teaching him were always intended to be used as weapons, that he himself was always meant to be used as Edwin's weapon, since he saw Edwin set the guards on fire and watch with a soft happy smile as they thrashed in agony, Merlin didn't have any shred of lingering affection left for the man. He still respected his intelligence and skill, but didn't feel any attraction, as if it was never there. Edwin used to say that it was childish, that Merlin was too squeamish, that it was selfish to try to keep his hands clean in the middle of the war, and perhaps he was right about that. But Merlin couldn't change how he felt, even if he'd wanted to. All their tryst left him with were regrets and shame for having been fooled so easily.

Now the last thing he wanted was to be puppy-smitten with the son of Uther Pendragon. It would be a betrayal of all he was, an insult to himself and all of his people who had suffered at Uther's hands. It couldn't possibly end in anything but disaster. And the fact that Arthur was completely in his power, his to do with as he pleased, made everything infinitely worse.

Arthur stood by the half-disassembled boiler, looking at him with an odd, quizzical expression. Bruised, surrounded by people who hated him and wanted him broken, he still stood tall and unafraid, still had the nerve to speak his mind. And he still looked so beautiful, his hair shining in the dull basement lights, his perfect jaw set firmly, and Merlin couldn't help but feel his heart flood with stupid, useless, wrong feelings, and he didn't want any of it.

"I was like you once, Arthur Pendragon," said Tauren. "Much as the comparison disgusts me. Once upon a time I didn't think any work was beneath me, if it needed doing. When I was needed, I left my job at the research lab, turned my back on my career and my dreams, on everything I worked for all my life, and I went to fight for my people."

"You were a terrorist?" Arthur asked, and that was it. Merlin crossed the room, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out. Arthur went without struggle, quietly, and that helped dissolve some of his rage.

"First of all," Merlin said as soon as they were alone in a secluded corridor. "Tauren was a freedom fighter. He fought for our freedom."

"Fat lot of good it did you," muttered Arthur.

"No, it didn't do me any good. In fact, when his group was arrested, what they did was used as an excuse to start taking people who hadn't done anything wrong. I was twelve when it started: mandatory psychological evaluations of all magic users. And they were all evaluated to be potentially dangerous. If it hadn't been for my mother that would have been it for me, right then. Three years in a mental institution, and then four years in here. That would've been my life. But he fought for my freedom. He'd give his life for my freedom."

"Did he kill anyone?"

"Yes. Most of the people here have, you know. I have. Mordred has."

"Mordred? Really?"

"Really. About fifty people. Don't piss him off, seriously. But if someone was to actually count how many of us are dead now because of your father..."

"That's different!"

"For you, yes, of course it is. I don't expect you to understand."

To his surprise, that somehow shut Arthur up. He bit his lip and looked down, and only then Merlin realised he was still clutching at his arm. He let go and stepped back, so he wouldn't be breathing right into Arthur's face.

"Second thing," he said. "Thanks for not being a dick to me in front of them. I know you probably wanted to."

"Well, a certain decorum is necessary, if we want to keep up this weird charade you have going with them."

"It's not a charade."

"I heard them. They all talk about you like you're some sort of evil magic messiah. I don't know how you've fooled them all, but the moment they aren't scared of you any more they'll eat you alive. So, whatever you need to do to keep it going, I'll go along with it."

"Will you?" Merlin asked. His mouth suddenly went dry with a rush of temptation, shameful and dirty, completely beneath him. He's been fighting it for days now, he was a better man than that, or at least he wanted to be. But it was too much, with Arthur standing right there, so close, speaking to him softly, trustingly, blindly offering anything Merlin would ask. Like he had the absolute faith that Merlin could never ask for anything he wouldn't want to give.

"Yes," said Arthur simply, and the sound of it shot through Merlin's whole body, right down to his cock. For the last three days it had been a struggle not to pop a boner whenever Arthur was around, and it was getting out of control. He needed to get some privacy and wank for a good hour or so, soon. It would be best to go right now, just walk away and not come near Arthur till he could think clearly again.

"Right. How about kneeling at my feet, then?" he heard himself saying instead, and a part of him was horrified and disgusted, but it obviously wasn't in control right now.

"I don't know," said Arthur contemplatively. "It might be a struggle for me. I'm sure you understand. We could practise alone before we try that in public."

"Very funny, Arthur."

"No, I'm serious. Say it. You have to say it. Tell me to kneel."

He stared right into Merlin's eyes, his pupils blown wide in the dimness of the corridor, his breaths quickened. The order was at the tip of Merlin's tongue, about to spill out, and not just because he wanted to see it: Arthur Pendragon kneeling before him, willingly, obediently, his face level with Merlin's straining cock, his neck bent down submissively, in complete surrender. He wanted that - but also, somehow, the compulsion to do whatever Arthur asked of him, even when he asked to be given orders, was worryingly strong. He couldn't allow that to take over him. This was a cruel joke, a mind game, something. He was a Pendragon, he was playing him, of course.

"I guess we both will have to work at this," whispered Arthur, smiling faintly. "That's okay. I'll teach you how to sound authoritative."

"What the fuck," managed Merlin. "Stop."

"Fine, I'll just do it."

He put his hand on Merlin's elbow for balance and sank down on one knee, almost touching it to the floor before Merlin gathered what was left of his wits and jerked him upright by the shoulders.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"You know what will get us both killed in here, Merlin?" said Arthur, not breaking out of his hold. His face was pink, with either embarrassment or anger. "My fucking pride and your - your weakness. I don't want to die here. We have to get over our hangups, we have to play the game."

"It's not... All right. Fine. I need to explain this to you. I didn't want to, I still don't want you to know, but you need to understand. Come on. I'll show you."

He took them down to the segregation, past the solitary units, to the end of the corridor where the box still sat against the wall, where he left it. It was now orange with rust, surrounded by a ring of dust that fell off its edges. Eventually it would all rust through and dissolve into a small heap of metal oxides, but for now it still held its shape.

"Woah," Arthur crouched next to it and peeked inside through the mess of the front wall where the door used to be. It was still there somewhere, mashed into the torn and twisted ribbons of iron. "Looks like a cannon hit it from the inside. What was in there? Some magical beast?"

"Me. Your father used this for punishment."

"Shit," said Arthur.

"It was supposed to be impossible to get out of. This metal, cold iron, it drains magic, it's like you can feel it being sucked out of you, along with bits of yourself. Nobody could do anything in there, not even warm themselves up or cast sleep on themselves to make time pass faster. Nobody ever."

"It's really small," Arthur ducked inside, like he wanted to get in and experience what it was like for him. He saw the bucket in the corner and cringed. "That – that's cruel. I'm sorry."

"Are you listening? It's supposed to be impossible to get out. I was in there when the riot started. I knew it was coming, and I didn't want to fight. Whatever, yes, I was a coward, I was selfish, I didn't want to kill anyone. I could've told your father and saved all those guards, but I couldn't betray my people."

"So you got yourself locked up in this thing."

"Yeah."

"Brilliant tactical move, dickhead."

"I know. I know, all right? I didn't know what to do! Stupid decisions, I told you. When I felt people dying, I couldn't – I got out. I tried to save everyone, but I just ended up having to choose. I had to kill some of them to stop them killing others. Three. Maybe four. That one might have survived, I don't know."

"Guards or inmates?" Arthur asked, breaking his train of thought, and now he saw them again, as they fell, screaming, and he tried to contain the damage, but everything was too much. He let his magic flow wild to break the cold iron cage, dropped all the barriers he knew he had, and it was coursing through him, overwhelming, roaring, taking over all of his senses. He could barely see with his eyes – his magic flooded his head with patterns of energy and elements, so far beyond the spectrum of normal vision he couldn't even map it all onto the three dimensions, sliding through time when he wanted to just move, his body ghosting through several places at once.

Arthur's hand was on his shoulder, rubbing down firmly, reassuringly.

"Don't tell me, you don't have to tell me now," he was saying. "Shh, it's okay. Just go back to the story, leave that for now. Come on, what happened afterwards?"

"I got out whom I could. Your father, too. I didn't want to - I wanted to let them kill him, Arthur. I nearly did let them."

"Of course you wanted that. Why wouldn't you have? You would," said Arthur and suddenly dropped his hand. Its absence left a cold spot on Merlin's shoulder.

"Wait," Arthur said. "He never told me how he got out. Was it you, really? How?"

"Like this," Merlin flicked his fingers at the box and slid it through the wall in a sloppy, careless push. They heard the thing rattle against the floor on the other side, rolling around. Arthur rushed to the wall and put his hands on it, feeling the place where the box went through. It wasn't even scratched, but he palmed at the concrete as if hoping to find a secret to the trick, a trap door, maybe. A slab of plaster came off the wall and crashed on his feet, powdering him with thin dust.

"What," Arthur said weakly.

"Vibrations."

"Yeah, no, not the plaster."

"Magic."

"Right. But, all right, but how come they haven't tried to kill you yet? Don't they know you saved him?"

"Of course they do. And yeah, some tried. Didn't work out so well for them."

He felt calmer now that the worst part of the story was nearly over, and he could look at Arthur again. But Arthur was lost in his own troubled thoughts now, his eyes huge, wide open and very blue, fixed on nothing.

"He lied to me," he muttered. "My dad, he... I asked him about you – you saved his life, and he didn't tell me. You – you're fucking crazy, Merlin. The more I know you, the less I understand how you're still alive."

"They can't kill me. Really, I mean it, enough people have tried by now. Not just because of Uther. They were angry, yeah, but I told them they should suck it up, vengeance is a completely useless thing and we needed him to be our liaison, he wouldn't make trouble after what he'd seen in here. And he never has."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you think this place was never stormed or under siege? They just let us have it."

"It's cheaper and safer to..."

"Yeah, right. Why do you think we're still in here? We can leave any time we want, I think you realise that by now."

"I don't know why, Merlin, why don't you enlighten me?"

"I'm holding a barrier of magic over the Facility. Nobody gets out. Nobody gets in. Not unless I let them. Nobody will take revenge on us for what we did, and nobody will hurt us anymore."

"It's you? You're keeping them here?"

"Yes. I don't want them out there. I saw what we can be, like a fucking pack of animals, running the prey down. Here we're safe, and the world is safe from us. Some still want to leave, but that's not up to them. Everyone stays, because I say so."

Arthur raked his hand through his hair and heaved a shaky breath.

"That makes sense," he said. "Something didn't add up, but that makes sense."

"So that's the story. That's who I am. Maybe I'm a traitor to my people, maybe I am an evil magic messiah, maybe I'm not even human, because my power is nothing like what any of them has. Maybe this whole thing was a really stupid idea. But I'm doing it. I'm their protector and I'm their keeper and they can't do anything to me. And some of them hate me, some of them worship me in a really creepy way, but they're all afraid of me, and that won't change just because I'm not making you... That's never going to change."

"Why didn't you just tell me right away?"

"I didn't want you to be afraid of me," he said, voice catching in a whiny, pathetic way. "I wanted to just be Merlin. Like, maybe we could be, I don't know. Friends, sort of."

"Oh, please. I'm not afraid of you, Merlin. What a ridiculous thing to say."

Somehow the obvious lie made him angrier than he'd felt in months. It was all wrong from the start, he shouldn't have wanted this, Edwin was right. He was being played again, just like before, letting himself be led on and used because he was horny and lonely and he didn't have anyone for so long. He was an idiot to fall for this man, an outsider, their enemy. Arthur was nothing like that shining image he'd built up in his head, this was all just pretence, bluster and fake courage, Pendragon pride and entitlement. He had to end it right now. Years of old suppressed anger boiled up all at once, and all he wanted was to ruin everything immediately, make it final, end all hopes, burn this weakness out of his soul.

He grabbed at Arthur's neck and slammed him into the wall, hard, just with his strength, not even putting any magic into it yet. Arthur let him do it, let his back hit flaky plaster in a soft, practised way, like a trained athlete who knows how to cushion any kind of fall. He looked a little surprised, but still not scared, and Merlin had to get to him, had to rip this perfect mask off, see the real man inside, terrified and revolted. He needed the truth.

"Don't talk to me like that," he hissed in Arthur's face, leaning on him to box him against the wall. "You're mine. You belong to me. You've no idea what kinds of things I can do to you."

And that did something, there was something flitting across Arthur's face now, something real and raw.

"I can kill you whenever I want to," Merlin continued. "Nobody would help you."

"Yeah, I know, but," said Arthur in an oddly scratchy voice, like his throat already went dry with fear, and licked his lips with a tip of his tongue. "It's not like you would. I don't really get what you're saying here. I mean, if you didn't have magic, I've got twice your muscle weight, I could take you apart with one blow. Would you be randomly scared of me?"

His pulse hammered wildly under Merlin's fingers where they were splayed over his collarbone, and his whole body was taut and stiff; this close up Merlin could feel the shivers running through Arthur's hard stomach.

"You are afraid," said Merlin triumphantly. "You're shaking with it."

"I'm not, Merlin, stop this already," Arthur shifted against him uncomfortably, something almost like pain making his mouth quirk. "I'm... uh."

Merlin grabbed him and shoved him back again, to hold him in place, and then he felt it: Arthur's cock, hard against his thigh, swelling more as he leaned closer, unable to help himself.

Arthur was blushing now, face screwed up awkwardly, and pushing him off, his arms weak and uncoordinated, barely jostling him.

"Oh fuck," Merlin muttered as his own long-denied erection sprung up hard, nearly making him double over with a surge of lust. He stepped back hastily, before he could do something he'd regret, dizzy with the roaring of blood in his ears, his legs weak and trembling.

"You're really not scared, then," he said dumbly, unable to take his eyes off the bulge in Arthur's jeans. Arthur reached down to adjust himself, wincing a little, palming at his cock through the jeans to shift it in a less awkward position. Merlin's fingers were twitching to help him with that.

"No, Merlin, I'm really not scared," Arthur said in his bitchiest voice. His lips looked so soft, and he kept licking them, leaving shiny wet trails against pink. "Let me explain this to you very slowly. Power doesn't make a man scary, malice does. And – newborn baby kittens have twice the malice you do. Your magic is, well, it's kind of hot, okay, but it's not scary. You're a good man."

"Arthur, I told you, I'm -"

"You're an idiot. But also a good man. And if things were different, I'd – we'd be having sex right now. Up against this wall."

"Oh. Really," said Merlin, trying for sarcasm or denial, or something. The way it came out was like he was begging for proof, which wasn't what he was going for, at all. Arthur was still slumped against the wall, shifting his legs in obvious discomfort: he still was so hard, the outlines of his thick cock clearly visible through the denim now. Arthur's eyes were fixed on Merlin's mouth, the intensity of the stare making him feel hot all over, making him shift closer without even noticing.

"Yes," said Arthur, almost breathlessly, but with firm conviction. "Trust me, Merlin, I can be so charming, your pants would like, evaporate. But we're not going to. And it's not just because of the whole prison bitch thing. Or the warlock thing. You're an inmate, and this would be a horrid abuse of my father's position."

At first Merlin couldn't even process that, his brain stuck somewhere around the idea of not having pants on, flinging himself at Arthur and rubbing himself all over that lovely body, and all the ways he could spread Arthur out with the magic, gently, carefully, hold them both suspended mid-air to do just as he pleased, for as long as he pleased. He would have moaned out loud at the images in his head if Arthur's words hadn't snapped him back to reality, and he yelled, annoyed beyond coherency:

"What? What? And you're calling me an idiot? Have you been paying attention to anything at all? Your father has no power here! And he abandoned you! He gave you to his enemies, to play with! My mother would have grabbed me and run half way across the world, she would have killed anyone in her way, she would never have let something like this happen to me -"

"My father has responsibilities, you wouldn't understand," muttered Arthur distractedly, like he really had no idea what words his mouth was making. And then he surged forward, grabbed Merlin's head with both hands and smashed their lips together.

It was awkward and a little painful with the sudden brutality of it, and so impossibly sweet Merlin felt his eyes rolling back, shutting against his will. Arthur was growling into his mouth, scraping his lips with sharp teeth, forcing his tongue in, thrusting it against Merlin's to get more friction. Merlin let himself be pulled closer, slapped his both palms against the wall near Arthur's head and dove in, biting and licking those lips he'd been staring at for days, drinking in sweet scent of Arthur's breath, the slickness of his mouth, pressing closer and closer to get deeper in, as deep as he could. He was dimly aware that he was drooling all over Arthur's face like a dog, but couldn't stop, and couldn't stop humping his leg, either. Arthur's fingers tightened in his hair, and then their hold disappeared and he whined into the kiss, bereft. But next moment Arthur's large hands were grabbing at his arse, palming it hard, shifting him to stand between his spread legs so he could rub himself right against Arthur's thick, deliciously hard cock. He wanted it in his mouth so, so badly, but couldn't have broken the kiss if his life depended on it.

Arthur pulled back first and tried to say something, but his lips were wet, puffy where they were bitten and lusciously red. So Merlin fisted both hands in Arthur's soft, beautiful hair and kissed him again, harder and harder, licking greedily across his lips and sucking on his tongue as he ground down with his hips. He could feel it almost building now, the long, long awaited release, like his whole body was wound up tight for the last three days and was going to uncoil now, be free and weightless and float up to the sky on this wave of bliss that was rolling closer and closer.

Arthur's hands slipped down his trousers, gave his arse a quick hard squeeze, and slid to the front. Merlin moaned something wordlessly ecstatic and shifted his hips to rub his cock at Arthur's hands, every touch a jolt of sweet white heat, and tried to fumble with the buttons on Arthur's fly one-handed. As much as he wanted to have Arthur's cock twitching in his fist, getting harder and hotter as he squeezed down, he just couldn't let go of Arthur's hair. It felt like the best thing he'd ever touched, and he needed to hold Arthur's head in place to keep kissing him, forever if at all possible.

"Ugh, you're so useless," panted Arthur against his lips, grabbed his hips and lifted him so easily – before Merlin could gasp and object he was propped against the opposite wall, and Arthur was on his knees in front of him, tearing down his uniform trousers.

Merlin's mouth made a string of sounds that made no sense whatsoever even to himself. He pulled gently on Arthur's hair, his fingers still tangled in it. Arthur gave him a quick look, with just a flash of his white teeth between kiss-swollen lips, his strong warm hand already squeezing Merlin's cock by the root. He planted a wet sloppy kiss on Merlin's stomach and sucked the cock head into his mouth, lapping around it eagerly, hungrily, with lingering broad swipes of his tongue.

Merlin couldn't stay still, rocking on the balls of his feet to get in deeper, or maybe pull back to make this last longer, his body couldn't decide what it wanted more. Arthur pushed him into the wall with both arms and held him there, one hand spread on his chest under his shirt, thumbing at his nipple, the other clasped on his arse cheek, fingers kneading at it, dipping into his crack, stroking sensitive places there. His mouth slid down, lips tight and soft and tongue working incredible patterns against the veins on the underside, and pulled back up, sucking just hard enough to be almost too much, almost enough to make him come on that first stroke.

"Arthur, Arthur," Merlin panted, hands pawing uncontrollably all over Arthur's gorgeous face, touching at his lips where they were stretched tight around his cock. Arthur moaned loudly, sending the vibrations through his skin, and they rolled through his tightening balls, and all the way up to top of his head, making everything tingle. He'd dropped his hand from Merlin's chest, pushed his jeans down and was now working his own cock in his fist, in hard, fast pulls, and Merlin could barely see it, needed to touch it.

But before he could voice his protest Arthur gave his cock a long wet lick, took him back in, deeper now, and started to suck harder, faster, and it was happening, oh, it was there, and he threw his head back and screamed into the ceiling as his orgasm washed over him, long and hard, draining him utterly, leaving him shaking and sated.

When he'd looked back down again, still dizzy and bleary-eyed with it, Arthur had come already, was milking last drops out of his still hard cock, letting them puddle on the concrete floor. His face was pressed against Merlin's thigh, and his harsh panting breaths where searing Merlin's skin, and that was enough to make him start getting hard again – too soon, he was too spent, it was too much.

He kept stroking Arthur's hair, slowly coming down and feeling increasingly uneasy as his brain started thinking thoughts again. Eventually Arthur stirred and moved away, shifted on his knees to pull his jeans back up. He wouldn't look up, staring fixedly into the floor. He buttoned up his fly and still stayed there, sitting on his heels. Then he leaned sideways and lightly banged his head against the wall a few times.

"Yeah," said Merlin, nodding wholeheartedly.

"Oh, shut the fuck up."

"What, you started it."

"If you tell anyone about this..."

He didn't continue, obviously for the lack of any believable threat he could make.

"Funny thing, I was going to say that to you," said Merlin. "But then I thought: which of your many friends around here would you tell?"

Arthur raised his head to give him an evil stare, and he looked so good – dishevelled, flushed, his mouth swollen and red, his eyes clear and, despite the attempted glare, so very soft. Merlin knelt down and kissed him again, licked at bitter drops of his own come in the corners of Arthur's lips and down his chin. Arthur shut his eyes and sighed into his mouth, contently, straining for more as Merlin pulled back.

"I don't want them to know," Merlin said. "Yeah, they all expect me to fuck you, or think I am already, but I didn't want it to actually be true. Not like this, not here."

"Well, it's true," muttered Arthur against his lips. "Just have to deal with it."

"Do you really think my magic is hot?"

Arthur looked at him with a confused frown for a couple of seconds, and then burst into giggles. He slumped forward, draping himself over Merlin in a move that was not quite a cuddle but close enough, and carried on laughing into his shoulder.

"Weirdo," he said.

"Me? Arthur, you're easily the weirdest guy I've ever met. And I've met some pretty special people."

"Yeah, no doubt. Okay, go do the walk of shame, I need to shower. You've dribbled your man juice all over me."

As soon as Merlin walked into the cell Mordred took one look at him and started snickering.

"Not a word from you," Merlin warned. "And don't tell anyone. Please."

He made it to the bunk, his legs still wobbling unsteadily, and stretched on his back.

He felt incredibly good. Every bit of his body felt good. His head was clear and light, his every muscle and bone felt warm, strong, supple. His bruised lips tingled and his cock was the happiest cock on the planet, and he couldn't relax his face enough to stop smiling.

Mordred climbed over him, wrinkling his nose at the smell and still smirking, and settled between him and the wall, curling his back against Merlin's side.

Arthur came in after a while, carrying his wet button-down shirt in outstretched arms and shaking it out with extreme concentration. His white t-shirt was tight and clingy, and Merlin allowed himself to look his fill.

"Had to partially wash it," Arthur said, spreading the shirt over the bunk frame. "Do you have laundry detergent? I couldn't find any."

"There's soap."

"Yeah, I was afraid you'd say that."

He wouldn't quite look at Merlin, but once he was done hanging up the shirt he sat down on the floor and sprawled backwards, his shoulders propped on the edge of the bed, his head resting on the mattress next to Merlin's hip.

"Are you all right there?" Merlin asked, carefully dipping his fingertips into damp strands of Arthur's hair.

"Yeah, fine."

"Do you want a pillow to sit on?"

"No, I don't want a pillow, and you just gave that little pervert the wrong impression because it's not what happened, not that it's any of his business. Yes, Mordred, I know you're awake. Tell Brigit I said hi."

"Brigit is mildly pleased with your offerings," droned Mordred into the wall.

"Mildly?" yelped Arthur in indignation, and Mordred laughed out loud at that, happily and squeakily, startling Merlin a little. He's never heard him really laugh before.

 _"I would like him,"_ Merlin heard him say. _"If he wasn't who he is."_

 _"It's not his fault."_

 _"It wasn't my fault when they were going to kill me. Nobody cares if it's fair or not."_

There was nothing to say to that. Merlin clandestinely stroked Arthur's hair, feeling it soften and dry under his fingers. Arthur turned his head and brushed his cheek against Merlin's knuckles, and then seemed lost in thought. As time passed his face slowly hardened, the small content smile turned into a scowl, and soon he was no longer lounging, sat there rigidly with his arms crossed on his chest.

"Arthur, stop revelling in your manly angst, it's really annoying. What we did – it doesn't have to happen again," said Merlin.

"No, I'm thinking about my father. I don't know how to talk to him now."

"I wouldn't tell him if I were you. He doesn't like me very much."

"Not that! I wasn't planning on telling my father – seriously, what's wrong with you? I meant, all the things I've found out here. He's been lying to me. I just don't understand."

"Don't tell him that either. This isn't a good time to make him mad, Arthur. You need him to keep fighting to get you out. Don't give him any excuses to back down."

Instead of arguing as usual Arthur just nodded glumly, and Merlin felt a small pang of guilt. To open Arthur's eyes to everything that had been done by Uther, make him doubt his father, even turn against him - that would be the ultimate revenge, really. But vengeance was a completely useless thing, he believed that even if he still wanted it sometimes, and he wasn't going to wreck Arthur's heart for something completely useless.

"I'm sure he'll do it soon," he said. "He might have sorted everything out already. You might be out today."

"Maybe."

It was possible. Merlin untangled his fingers from Arthur's hair – it had dried while he was petting it, and now was sticking up at odd angles, which looked far sexier than it had any right to. It would be good if Arthur could go home today. Nothing disastrous has happened yet, nothing any of them wouldn't recover from, and he already had the good memories to last him for years. This would be perfect timing.

"If I do get out, promise me something," said Arthur.

"Sure, anything."

"Fix this place up. Tell everyone to pull their fingers out and at least clear the rubble. And take the broken cell doors down, they're a hazard and they're rusting, you'll all get tetanus. And for fuck's sake, get rid of that red splat on the wall – and please don't tell me what it actually is. If you need anything, supplies, paint, whatever, make a list and I'll talk to my father. This place has been way under budget for a year now, you have the funds to install hot tubs on every floor if you want to."

"Um, why do you want me to do that?"

"Because it's horrible! It's filthy! No, I get it, this place was your prison and you all hate it. And a lot of you might have depression and PTSD with all that's happened, and some of those psychiatric diagnoses clearly aren't bogus. So yeah, I understand that you're not the most industrious bunch and you'd rather cast a warmth spell and sleep in it all day. But this needs to be done. You're keeping them here, you have to make this into a home."

"No, I told them not to touch it. Leave it all as it is. So we always remember what happened, what was done to us and what we did, and why we can never leave."

"And this is just another example of why you shouldn't be in charge of anything."

"I don't even have a comeback to that," admitted Merlin, trying and failing to get as insulted as he felt he should be. "Words are inadequate to describe what a prat you are. Tauren's right: you've been here three days and you already think you would've done everything better, that's just – such bollocks. I tried my best, considering I never wanted to be in charge! And why should I listen to you, anyway? You're a Pendragon, I should trust your advice even less than I do Edwin's."

"Because, the whole sanity issue aside, your Edwin studied medicine or whatever, and I almost have joint honours in Political Science and Economics. Way more relevant. So think of me as a professional consultant, and my professional advice is to paint the fucking walls already. This war will never be over until we all start moving on."

"I don't even think it can be over. Not after – everything."

"See," said Arthur. "This is exactly what I mean. You can't effectively manage several hundred crazy homicidal warlocks with a defeatist attitude like this."

He shifted against the bed and butted his head into Merlin's fingers, which Merlin took as a permission to pet him some more. This time he used just a tiniest frisson of magic, letting some of this odd, fluttery affection pooled in his chest pour out through his fingertips, sink back into Arthur's skin as a different kind of caress, barely felt, just enough to make it more memorable.

He didn't go down to the gates with Arthur. He stayed in the cell and waited for sunset with his eyes shut and his mind emptied. As the sun touched the horizon, making his magic swirl yearningly, he reached outside the building and felt for the barrier.

It wasn't any spell, just his raw power stretched over the fence like a bubble, grounding him to the compound. He was fused into it now, his magic rooted into the concrete and woven through the sky above them. He thought at first that it would quickly drain him, he wouldn't last few hours holding it up. But all the destructive spells the others threw at the barrier in the very beginning, when they tried to break out before the army would get here, didn't tear at him as he expected it to. They hurt and were terrifying to take head on without letting his magic flinch away and dissipate, but he did it, and as he absorbed each hit they fed right back into him as purest energy, strengthening his hold. Nowadays he barely felt it when someone attempted an attack.

Now it took no effort whatsoever to manipulate the barrier, no more than moving his eyelids. It was a familiar, almost pleasant ache in his mind, and soon he could believe he always had lived like this: his magic unravelled, strained and spread across half a square mile, seeping freely into the ley lines of the land. He was a part of the landscape, his body sometimes lost on his mental map because the whole of the Facility was him now, the physical frame for his power.

He knew from the start this fixed pulse of large-scale magic would do something to the land. And it was doing it, more with every day, warping the flow of elements around his protective cocoon in the ways far beyond his understanding. Only a few months later, just before Mordred had arrived, he realised what was happening to him and to everything around him. The earth had surrendered against the constant, foreign pull of his magic and let him in, took him in as something that belonged, and was now feeding him with its strength. He had created his own place of power. Here he was already almost invincible; with time he could become limitless.

He stroked his magic through the whole span of the barrier, enjoying the feel of its smooth, untarnished integrity. Then he took a breath and opened the gateway.

He held it for fifteen minutes, as always, confident that should something happen in that time the others would hold the defence till he was alerted. Mordred was watching him quietly: he loved looking at Merlin when he worked the barrier. As he reached to the outer boundary of himself he felt the earth tugging at his magic, just a whisper, like skin catching on skin – almost nothing. But Mordred could see it, and he liked watching.

Then the time was up, and he slowly slid the breach closed and waited.

He could ask Mordred if Arthur had left. Mordred was amazing at pinpointing people's locations by casting for their minds. But Merlin didn't want to let on how much this got to him, how desperate he was for an answer. He could wait and find out.

He wanted Arthur to leave. He wanted Arthur to go home, be safe and happy. It was incredibly, horribly selfish to wish him to stay.

When he heard the familiar footsteps outside the cell his whole face broke into a ridiculous, inappropriate grin, and he had to struggle to look sombre, nearly had to douse himself with a spell to do it.

"Sorry," he said with painstakingly emoted sadness as Arthur came back in and sat on the bunk, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"It's all right."

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe."

They sat together in silence, no words good enough to match all their moods. Then Mordred got bored and went out for fresh food, and they all picked at it with the same lack of enthusiasm.

"There's just... no real hope," whispered Arthur eventually, very quietly.

He didn't know what to say. Arthur's eyes glistened wetly, just for a second, and then he was in motion again, pacing the room, stretching, surreptitiously wiping at his face and faking a yawn to hide it.

"So, tomorrow, what shall we do tomorrow," he said with his usual cheery arrogance. "I suggest we... What's that sound?"

"Where?"

"I don't know," he turned about, screwing up his face in a hilarious expression of puzzled concentration. "Don't you hear it? Sort of a bubbling hissing sound."

Merlin tried to listen harder, and only then noticed the familiar pattern among the background noise.

"That's just central heating," he said, and then remembered that they hadn't had that for about eight months now. "Oh. Huh. I guess Tauren's fixed the boiler."

Arthur gaped at him for a moment, and then smiled smugly, about to say something extremely obnoxious. But instead he just started laughing, loudly, till he was out of breath, shaking his head and waving his hands in pure glee, and Merlin wasn't sure he understood what was so funny, but still couldn't help laughing along with him. 

 


	9. Keeper of the Gates

At night Arthur still mostly dreamt of school, the usual stuff: cramming pages of cryptic dream-nonsense for a test, running late for a game, parties where he couldn't recognise a single face even though he was sure he should know all of them by name. He dreamt of his father, berating him for something – in the dreams he could never grasp what it was, or whether it was deserved. The Facility didn't have a grip on his mind yet. All his dreams were still about the real world, his real life.

Waking up wasn't getting easier yet, but he loathed the idea of getting used to it. He hoped to be out of here before all this became normal: waking up in a small barred cell, his face barely a foot away from the grey ceiling, the building humming with voices of the captive warlocks roaming outside, smirking at him from the stairs. He almost welcomed that moment of anger, desperation and panic that rolled over him each time he remembered where he was - a reminder that he didn't belong here, and he would get out.

He knew that as soon as he was awake he had to get up, had to try and establish some semblance of morning routine, keep himself in a decent state, work out, leave the cell; try to talk to people, even. He had to learn about the power structure of the place, figure out where the next threat might be coming from and who if anyone could help them. Lounging on the top bunk like a terrified, depressed sack of potatoes wasn't serving any purpose whatsoever.

While he gathered his strength he did what he'd done every morning in here so far: leaned down from his bunk and watched Merlin sleep. He didn't care if it was creepy or pathetic; Merlin was extremely easy on the eyes, especially like this, when he wasn't yelling at Arthur, cracking stupid jokes at his expense or pulling ridiculous faces.

Of course, awake Merlin also had his moments. Arthur lightly pressed his morning-stiff cock into the thin mattress and thought, belatedly, that he should have left a mark: he should've sucked a shameless purple lovebite onto the side of Merlin's neck, just where the ends of his messy, overgrown hair twisted into loose dark curls. That would've been proof that it all had really happened, a reminder. Then he'd be able to better remember now how Merlin had looked then, with his eyes huge and glittering, his soft mouth bruised like a sweet ripe fruit, pink flush spreading down his chest...

But Mordred was asleep by Merlin's side, cosily, trustingly curled against him, and even indulging in frisky thoughts didn't seem quite appropriate in his presence.

Without as much as a twitch or a yawn, Mordred opened his eyes. He didn't seem sleepy at all, and he was looking straight at Arthur.

"Hey, Mordred," Arthur said. "Morning."

The boy blinked once, and his eyes slowly closed again, signalling the end of the conversation.

One way or another, somehow, Arthur had to do something about Mordred. He couldn't let a child stay in here, silent, lonely and creepy, living in a concrete box till he became a teenager, a full grown man, and then a total psycho. There still had to be a way to save him.

As Arthur headed out, he mentally ran through all the things he had planned for today – clean the shower rooms, investigate the laundry facilities, ascertain the state of essential supplies like detergent and shaving cream – when he realised that what he really wanted to do was to find the way onto the roof. He'd already been to the basement, as deep as the building went; the next logical step in the exploration would be to reach the highest ground, so he could feel the scope of his new temporary home. He could survey the land from up there, like a mediaeval warrior from the battlements of his castle, and he could see a bit of Cheshire countryside. The trees, the hills, maybe even a river, or just fields or grass - something green and different from the cracked dry earth of the prison yard.

It didn't take long to find the right stairs. When he went anywhere without Merlin he was always followed by a flock of inmates and he always anticipated an attack, but they weren't doing anything more than taunting him and tripping him up with magic, like a bunch of schoolboys trying to bully a new kid. Only as he climbed the last flight of the metal ladder did he realise how easy it would be for them to make anything look like an accident once he was alone with them on the rooftop. The building wasn't that tall, but it was definitely tall enough.

But they weren't following him. They pooled at the landing, sulky and disappointed, and stayed there. He stepped out on the roof and pushed the rusted door firmly closed.

The relief of suddenly being alone was sweet and sharp, like a sudden gust of fresh highland air. He knew this weakness in himself, had always known that his life would be a very public affair and privacy would always be an indulgence. But he still needed it sometimes, now more than ever, after days being constantly watched like he was something edible, relieving himself in public and sharing with two near strangers a tiny room that didn't even have the luxury of four walls.

He took a breath, revelling in the feeling, already feeling himself uncoil, loosen up and pull back together. Then he turned around to take in the view.

Except there was no view. The fence was taller than the squat building of the cell block. All he could see was low grey sky, grey concrete walls and torn, unfurling coils of razor wire that hung off the fence like dead branches of climbing ivy. The top of the fence was a straight line against the sky, just like the horizon would've been. It was as if the borders of his prison somehow stretched out into infinity, swallowing up everything, the whole world.

Arthur let his legs give and fold and bring him down to the warm, surprisingly clean surface of the roof. He sat there and stared down, at his dirty jeans and his hands. There was a dark line of grime already forming under his fingernails again, even though he had washed after he woke up - less than an hour ago. He hadn't even touched anything particularly dirty since then. The filth was in the air itself; just being here was enough for it to start clinging.

"I can't do this," he said out loud.

His own voice sounded barely familiar like this: quivering in the empty air, weak and pathetic enough to make him shut up instantly. He stayed where he was, watching the shadow of the fence slowly creep along the roof. It felt like if he moved even a little something disastrous would happen, something disgusting and dark would bubble up from the inside and choke him, and he couldn't have that. He couldn't let that happen.

The metal door behind him creaked and groaned on the hinges. He still didn't move, almost couldn't, caught in some bitter, fatalistic trance.

"Hey," said Merlin. "I wondered where you were."

His shadow stretched long and thin across the roof, the contours of his ears sticking boldly out of the mess of his hair. He stepped closer, and the shadow's arm spilled over Arthur's lap like a puddle of watery ink, clung to his thighs in an ethereal caress.

"I wanted some time alone," Arthur grumbled, glad to find his voice again.

"Me too. This is actually my alone place."

"Is it? That explains why my fans are slacking. Well, don't worry, I don't mind if we share."

Merlin sat down and, in an impressive display of flexibility, hugged his long legs to his chest till his knees nearly touched his ears. He seemed to be completely relaxed in this position, sitting there pensive and quiet and fully unaware of how obscene it looked.

Arthur, for one, immediately got a sharp mental picture: Merlin, stripped completely naked, laid out on the soft, soft sheets in Arthur's bed. The red sheets – he'd look amazing on those, creamy hues of his skin highlighted by the rich colour. Merlin, drawing his legs up, invitingly. Pulling his knees tightly to his chest, just like this, with this comfortable ease, and holding them there. Holding himself open and ready.

He sighed wistfully and stared at Merlin's upturned profile. Merlin was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, making it pale and flush with blood again, and that was fascinating to watch.

"Look, Arthur," he said. "Do you want to talk? I think we should talk."

"What, about our feelings? Don't be such a girl, Merlin."

Merlin turned and glared at him, bright blush rising on his face like a flash flood. Arthur leaned across his legs, trapping them between their bodies, and kissed Merlin's pouting lips.

They quivered and went soft, opened for him right away. Merlin's whole body twisted against Arthur's, straining to close all gaps behind them. It felt exactly like the first time, the same clumsy eagerness with an edge of desperation. Even Merlin's gasps, soft sounds caught somewhere between their breaths, still sounded half-surprised.

"Ugh, no, you arse, that's not," mumbled Merlin, still kissing him wetly between the syllables, kneeing him in the chest at the same time. "That's not what I meant. Arthur, get off, I can't do this with your tongue down my throat."

"Fine," Arthur sighed and shifted back. "All right. Let's see what's more important than enjoying a rare moment of having the place to ourselves."

Merlin gave him a long dark-eyed look, so earnest and warm it took a considerable amount of willpower not to tackle him again.

"If you want to talk to someone about all this, about all that's happened, or anything," he said softly. "Well, of course you don't want to, you're a public school stiff upper lip macho git, but you need to. You can talk to me."

"I'm fine."

"Come on, it wouldn't even be normal if you were fine right now."

"Merlin, I'm fine! What do you want me to tell you, anyway? You were there. You saw most of it. You know what they did to me. There was nothing I could've done that would've made any difference. I've nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn't make me anything less. Father doesn't know, nobody knows, and if they find out, I'll deal with that. I'm fine. Well, yes, I'll feel a lot better after I get tested."

"You're clean, don't worry."

"You can't assume that. There was blood, I bled. If there was an STD to catch then I got it, and how exactly is this supposed to make me feel better? I was just fine when I wasn't thinking about it!"

"We don't have STDs here," Merlin said, squirming slightly. "We – we have druids. So we have fertility festivals and purifying magic. Everybody's clean."

"Oh," Arthur said, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he'd just been shouting. Very loudly. "Well. All the less reason to talk about it, then."

His hands were shaking badly, and he attempted to nonchalantly fold them between his thighs, only to discover that his legs were shaking as well. Merlin just sat there, tactfully looking away, pretending not to notice.

"And since when are you an expert on the subject of all things normal, anyway?" Arthur said to fill the pause. He was calming down, but not as quickly as he wanted to, and talking helped, as long as he wasn't talking about – well. "Did you know that my father thought you were clinically retarded?"

"Yes," Merlin said with an odd chuckle. "You know, sometimes you're just like I imagined you'd be."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father had a picture of you on his desk. You looked – sixteen, maybe. Younger than I was, anyway. Sometimes I'd be there for hours, he'd make me stand there and think about my attitude while he decided what to do with me. I'd look at you to focus on something, and I'd try to picture what you were like."

"You had a crush on me before we even met?" Arthur asked, strangely moved by how it all worked out, how their fates seemed linked on some deeper level.

"No, I thought you looked like a pompous arrogant prick," said Merlin, deadpan, suppressing a smile. "I'm still surprised you've turned out to be not entirely horrible."

"Blatant lies. You so had a crush on me," Arthur said, feeling quite content now, despite everything. He pushed at Merlin's legs to manhandle him into position and sprawled out on the roof luxuriously, with his head pillowed on Merlin's thighs. He threw an arm back to loosely curl it around Merlin's skinny waist, shut his eyes against the sun and shut his mind against everything.

This, even though he would never ever admit it to anyone, this was the best part of having sex with someone, better than the sex itself: being free to press against any part of another's skin, wrap yourself around another body in any way you wanted and stay like that as long as they'd let you. Not having to worry about being weird, clingy, inappropriate, going too far, because you've already had sex and exchanged the most inappropriate touches possible; now it was all fair play, perfectly acceptable.

Merlin's fingers were moving in his hair again, too gentle, and it stirred him in a really odd way, making him helplessly ache for something indefinable. He could almost hate it. He slipped his hand under the hem of Merlin's orange shirt and flattened his palm over the bumps of his bent spine, not really caressing, just holding them both steady, anchored.

"You know what?" said Merlin hoarsely. "I'm a warlock of unimaginable power, stronger by far than anyone else here. My authority is unchallenged, and my word is the law. And if I want to talk about my feelings I will talk about my feelings whenever I bloody well please."

"Gods have mercy on us all," Arthur mumbled, wriggling against him to get more comfortable.

"I like you."

The silence fell and kept hanging there, growing more ominously resonant by the second. Arthur opened his eyes. Merlin was grinning down at him, giddily cheerful, looking very pleased with himself.

"I think I've noticed," said Arthur, frowning to avoid getting infected by that smile. "All the snogging was a dead give-away. Are you waiting for me to grow ovaries and say something soppy?"

"No, I just wanted to tell you. I like you, and I'll miss you."

Arthur caught Merlin's free hand and pulled it over to rest on his chest, because his heart rate just sped up uncomfortably like it did after too much coffee, and he wanted something warm and soothing there.

All he wanted right now was laze on this roof, feel Merlin's stomach move slightly on exhales and watch sunlight break on sharp angles of his incredibly pretty face, and not talk about anything. But they had to have this conversation eventually.

"I'll visit," he said.

Merlin's fingers twitched in his hold as if he was considering snatching his hand away.

"Sure," Merlin said, his smile frozen on his face, cracking at the edges. "And you'll text me every day. Because we're boyfriends now."

"Not just because of that, no. Look, this whole situation is insane. The conditions here are appalling, all of this is barbaric and, incidentally, a powder-keg for a bloody insurrection. We can't hang the whole security of this place, and ultimately the country, on one person. And you can't be expected to police your peers without any support from anywhere. My father – he's not always fair when magic's involved, and he really dropped the ball on this one. I need to make him see it, and we need to fix this mess. Mordred shouldn't even be here with people like Muirden..."

"Don't make any fuss about Mordred," Merlin said in the same controlled, patient voice he used to issue orders and threats to the other inmates. Now that it was directed at him Arthur was beginning to see how creepy and effective it was. "The less people know how early the magic can manifest, the better. Or would you rather they built a separate Facility for children?"

"No! See, this is why I'll need your advice every step of the way. There will be a lot of things to figure out before we can even talk to other players, so yes, you'll be seeing me a lot after I get out."

"Arthur, what are you talking about?"

"I'm going to broker negotiations between the Government and the warlock community," Arthur announced. The idea had been bubbling in the back of his mind for a while now, and as he finally voiced it he knew he was right, it made perfect sense, it was going to work. "We're going to end the war. It can be done. There must be people on both sides who want to resolve this as much as you and I do. Maybe whoever set me up just wanted revenge. But this, me being here, this could be a good thing, it could all be worth it. I now have unique knowledge and perspective, and I have your trust and my father's ear. There probably hasn't been an opportunity like this in the whole history of the conflict."

It wasn't how this was supposed to be discussed. Not sprawled on the prison roof in rank unwashed clothes, his head in his boyfriend's lap, holding hands. But then again, Merlin's name could very well end up signed under the truce and amnesty agreement, alongside the PM's, and they could always leave the handholding part out of the history books if they made it that far.

"It will take years," he continued. "Literally years. But we'll just keep working till we succeed. There are people in our very country who've successfully negotiated peace when situations seemed beyond any resolution. We'll study their work, use it as a starting point. We can even bring them in as advisers! If I get out within two months and with my name completely cleared, I can still graduate on schedule, so I'll do that, a degree will be useful. While I'm at school I can come up here at least three times a month, and we can begin to work on our strategy. After that..."

"You actually mean it," said Merlin. His face was – Arthur couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like this, with such open, unreserved admiration, like he'd hung the moon, like he was something perfect. He hadn't even done anything yet.

"So let's not waste time," he said quickly. He could barely hold Merlin's eyes; this was silly. He wasn't planning this to please Merlin, after all. It was for the sake of peace, national security, human rights and justice, it had to be done, the war simply had to be over. "I have a lot to learn. I know almost nothing about – well, most of this, as it turns out. For example, that magic barrier you have around the place. Can I see it?"

"It's invisible."

"Yeah, I've figured that one out all by myself, thank you."

"All right," Merlin said. "Look up."

The sky above them was swathed in layers of flimsy, frayed greyish clouds. Merlin stretched a hand upwards, and the clouds moved.

It wasn't anything grand; the clouds could have been blown by the wind, except the wind wouldn't be working this fast and with such purpose. As Arthur watched, the clouds merged overhead, compacted and fluffed out, turning whipped cream-white. Now the mega-cloud was swelling even more, its fat underbelly gaining a blue tint that grew darker by the second.

"Is that you doing this?" Arthur asked, even though that was obvious.

"Yes. This is easy; getting rid of clouds is really fiddly. Though, I don't know, it's probably the opposite in Africa. Right, that should do it."

He flicked his fingers, and the cloud lit up in a few places at once, skewered through by a lightning. A rumble of thunder hit a second later, and then the rain began.

Arthur couldn't figure it out at first. He saw water streaming down, the sky striped with glistening drops, but the ground stayed dry – they stayed dry - and the rain wasn't making a sound. He stared upwards, straining his eyes, and then he saw the barrier.

The rain wasn't bouncing off it, or sliding along; it soundlessly stopped a few yards above them. Something was happening to the raindrops there, creating a thin layer of misty turbulence, but he couldn't tell what it was. It could be that they evaporated, which meant that rain boiled up and turned to steam as soon as it touched Merlin's magic. As displays of power went, this was subtler than shattering a concrete wall or teleporting large objects; that was probably why it felt more impressive. Arthur hadn't noticed tightening his hold on Merlin's slim fingers till Merlin squeezed back.

"Do you like it?" Merlin asked, grinning smugly. His large ears glowed transparently against the sky. That should've looked funny and sweet, should be making him look more human, less ethereal. Arthur couldn't tell why it wasn't.

There was a tinny crash from below, a sound of a slamming door, and then somebody yelled:

"Oh for Bel's sake, Emrys!"

"Who's Emrys?" Arthur asked, getting up to investigate.

Down on the ground, by the fire exit, a man was struggling with half a dozen scattered buckets and glaring daggers at rain-dappled sky. When he saw them peering down he lowered his eyes and actually bowed, looking contrite.

"Me," said Merlin. "It's my druid name or something, they always call me that. What is it, Aglain? Do you need water?"

"Yes, please, Emrys," the man said, quickly arranging the buckets. There were blue symbols painted over his uniforms; the sleeves were cut off, leaving his tattooed arms exposed, and Arthur recognised some Druidic images he'd seen in his father's work files. "That sludge they pipe in is completely useless for the rituals, I'm afraid."

"You could just ask."

"Oh, we don't want to bother you. We gather what we need when you commune with the elements. It's just you haven't lately."

Merlin waved his palm, and the sky opened above them; the rain crashed down, and Arthur ducked his head, bracing for it. But they were still dry. A foot from them, in the yard, over the buckets, it was raining, and here it wasn't.

The sharp smell of rain-soaked dust hit his nostrils, so out of place in England. It was a holiday abroad kind of smell, it belonged to the places where it rained maybe once a week, where the baked earth yearned for it, fell apart without it, and came alive in seconds, swelling under the first raindrops with the smell like this.

"So, you commune with the elements," Arthur said.

"No. Well. I might have kind of opened the barrier and stood in the rain once or twice."

"Or enough times for people to use it as an alternative water source."

"I... might have a delayed emo phase?"

"Can't say I blame you, really."

Aglain went back into the building and came out again with two more tattooed men in tow, carrying even more buckets. The men bowed to Merlin, pointedly ignored Arthur and went on harvesting the water.

"Emrys," said Aglain, taking cover by the wall and wiping raindrops off his shaved head. "We wish to warn you. There's unrest in the flow of elements; the people are stirred."

"They won't do anything," Merlin said, disinterested.

"They only fear you as much as they fear death. That might not be enough. The temptation is too great for some," Aglain quickly glanced at Arthur and continued. "With your blessing we're going to hold a fertility festival to soothe the minds and the bodies."

"Yeah, sure, go ahead."

"It will be an honour if you join us in celebrations."

Merlin gave a kind of a full-body shrug of extreme and forceful non-commitment and walked away from the edge of the roof, into the relative privacy where nobody could see them.

"Hang on," said Arthur, because that really needed clarifying. "Did he say they're throwing an orgy to distract everyone from... me?"

"Yup."

"Huh. But isn't the fertility festival supposed to be once a year? You know, harvest cycles."

"Arthur, we're in prison. We don't farm. The druids throw a festival whenever they're bored."

"Oh. And you're invited."

"Everyone's invited. But, yeah, they'll insist that I join in. They always do."

"But they can't make you," said Arthur. His voice hitched up in a moment of completely unwarranted panic; this was a consensual sort of orgy, he was sure, and Merlin didn't look afraid, just uneasy. Arthur cleared his throat and started again: "They can't make you, can they?"

"Well, no, but they can sit outside my room for days on end and beg, and chant, on their knees, with tambourines, till I agree to come over and let someone blow me next to the altar. I mean, it's not a hardship or anything, it's just. You know."

"Doesn't matter, you're not going," Arthur said firmly and slung an arm around Merlin's shoulders for the emphasis. "Tambourines or no. Your orgy days are over, you're not single anymore."

Merlin scrunched up his face and bit his lips, nearly swaying with an effort not to smile, shifting slightly to accommodate Arthur's elbow. The smile was winning and breaking through, huge and bright, lighting up his whole face.

"You know you don't have to do anything for me," he said. "Or, for my people. You know..."

"I most certainly am not doing this for you, Merlin," Arthur said and kissed him hard.

Moments later they were down on the concrete, tangled up together; Merlin's hands were really as nimble as they looked and he was rubbing Arthur's cock through his jeans, up and up, with sure and firm strokes. Merlin's neck tasted sweet and warm with a hint of salt, and Arthur wanted more, all of him.

"Off," he ordered, yanking at Merlin's shirt.

"So bloody bossy," whinged Merlin and pulled back to get the shirt over his head. He re-emerged slightly pinker, with his hair rumpled and lop-sided and his skin so fair and fine over his sharp collarbones, and Arthur had to drag him closer and kiss him again, and again.

"I've been single since February last year," Arthur confessed, hoping that would explain his pushiness if not excuse it. Not that Merlin was really complaining. "There wasn't anybody."

"Why?"

"Ugly breakup," he said curtly and bit Merlin's ear for being nosy. Merlin shivered against him in the way that suggested the punishment didn't work. "Doesn't matter."

"I want you naked," Merlin already had Arthur's shirt and jeans unbuttoned, and now was pulling it all off at the same time, baring him from the middle in both directions. And normally that would be a great plan, but it just didn't – no.

"It's a bit chilly," said Arthur lamely and shrugged the shirt back on.

Merlin mumbled some nonsense and pressed down with his hands, and something happened to Arthur's body, underneath his skin, instantly forcing him into a near feverish state. Now he wasn't chilly in the slightest. Prickly sweat was breaking on his forehead and his arms; his t-shirt was already damp and sticking to his back. Arthur wiped his face with a shirt cuff and glared.

"Sorry," Merlin said, sheepish and short of breath. "I thought – right, yeah, really cold out here, you should keep your clothes on."

Arthur sat back, still reeling from having magic thrust inside him without a warning, without a second thought, like it was normal to do something like that to a friend. But maybe it was around here. Maybe the warlocks bespelled each other as routinely as other people would exchange handshakes.

It didn't even make sense to feel ill at ease. He trusted Merlin and wanted him, and the surge of magic he was hit with had faded already. And he could take his clothes off, it wasn't like he had developed some sort of phobia about it. He had stripped before to take a shower, he could do that now to have sex.

"We can go back in," Merlin said. "Just, I really wanted to give you a blowjob."

His beautiful mouth was flushed from the kissing, his face so sweet and guileless, pleading and brazenly horny at the same time. Even if Arthur wanted to turn him down, he probably wouldn't have had the heart to. He sunk his fingers in Merlin's messy hair, pulled him in for a kiss and stuck his tongue into Merlin's mouth, letting Merlin suck on it gently, once, twice. Then he pulled back and pushed Merlin's head down.

"Go on then," he said, pleased that he was still hard. Merlin quickly settled between his legs, pushed his fly open just enough, lovingly cradled his balls in one palm and wrapped another around the shaft.

"Just so you know," he said very seriously. "I've only ever done this to one man, and it's been ages since I have. I might not be any good."

Arthur held his breath and waited. Merlin's pink tongue hovered over his skin, looking so soft, so perfect. The first slow licks across the head of his cock left Arthur gnawing on his own knuckles to stifle the moans. He didn't want to make any sounds – there were inmates around, the druids were right there, on the ground, just a few yards down, still fussing with their buckets, he could hear them. Merlin kept licking at him like Arthur was an ice lolly on a very hot day, trailing his tongue over and over the head, down the shaft, tickling at his balls, licking wide wet stripes up his inner thighs. Finally he took just the tip of Arthur's cock in his mouth and held it there, bathed in luxurious wet warmth, dragging his soft, soft lips over the most sensitive places. At that point Arthur might have sobbed a little.

It was exquisite and excruciating at the same time, too slow and gentle for his current state of shaky, frustrated arousal. He didn't want anything fancy or drawn out. He didn't think he could even really feel anything that wasn't hard and immediate, right there on the edge.

He let out an impatient grunt and tried to push up, get in deeper, but instead of letting him Merlin pulled back and splayed a hand on Arthur's stomach.

"Do you mind? I'm enjoying myself," he said. "Are you in a rush? Got somewhere better to be?"

"Just," Arthur panted, no idea what he was going to say, how he would word it. "Please?"

"Okay, yeah," said Merlin easily, smiling like he understood him exactly. "Sure."

He gave Arthur's wet cock a few reassuring tight strokes with his hand and slid his mouth back down, taking him in deep this time. As he started to suck his cheeks hollowed, making his cheekbones kick off even more, and his lips looked so good, stretched like that, working up and down. Suddenly Arthur had to struggle not to come too fast, wanting to drag the pleasure out just a little bit more. He spread his hands over the expanse of Merlin's naked back, stroked his arms, chasing away the goosebumps raised by the breeze, slid a hand down to carefully roll a nipple between his fingertips. He knew already that Merlin liked that, and now once more he shivered gratefully, moaning his appreciation, bobbing his head a little faster over Arthur's cock, sucking harder.

Arthur was already getting close, thighs shivering, cock tingling happily, the last working brain cell trying to think of the appropriate sperm-related etiquette – well, first time they did this Merlin cheerfully came in his mouth and never apologised, so – when Merlin stopped again and pulled away, rubbing at the hinges of his jaw.

"Sorry," he said. "Really out of practice."

"It's okay, hand's good," said Arthur, surprising himself with his eloquence in the face of impending orgasm, gathered him closer and pushed down his ugly prison trousers. Merlin was gloriously hard, his cock leaving slick smears of pre-come on his stomach and Arthur's hands as he shuffled closer.

"I would normally use magic," he said apologetically, straddling Arthur's thighs.

"That's just laziness," Arthur pointed out, and then Merlin lined their erections together and wrapped one long-fingered hand over both of them, and stroked. It felt so wonderfully right that Arthur thought he should perhaps be more open minded, so he added, pushing into Merlin's tight fist: "Maybe next time."

Merlin let out a short happy laugh and kissed him. His lips were warm and very soft from all the friction, and Arthur tried to be gentle, savour him. But he was too close, too impatient, this was too good. Merlin wasn't complaining, though, enthusiastically returning his rough kisses, arching and groaning as Arthur pinched at his nipples, and kept jerking them both off in fast, unwavering rhythm.

He let Arthur shoot all over his chest, watched him do it, wild-eyed, gasping softly as every splash hit his skin. He came into his own hand before it was over, before Arthur had a chance to taste him again. Then he let Arthur swirl sticky cooling come all over his skin, finger-paint it over his nipples, dab some on his lips. He propped himself against Arthur's shoulder, half-seated and half-collapsed into a sated warm heap, and let Arthur play with his body any way he wanted.

"I'm not out to my father," Arthur said eventually. Merlin made a small, completely unsurprised sound.

"I'm going to," Arthur continued. "Well, I have to be publicly out before I stand for MP, obviously. But I wanted to come out to him as bi, so he doesn't quite die on the spot. I'm pretty sure I'm bi. Just never met the right woman."

"You said there was a girl."

"She wasn't the right one. She was really wrong. Anyway, I might as well tell him sooner rather than later, because we can't be discreet here. It's only a matter of time before someone like Muirden tells my father about us, and unless he knows I'm gay he's going to jump to the worst conclusion."

"He will anyway," said Merlin sleepily, nestling against his side. "I don't care what he thinks."

"I do. That means so should you."

"So he'll think I enchanted you, or – something worse. What's he going to do about it? I doubt he can even manage to hate me any more than he already does."

Merlin shivered a little, and he had to be getting cold now, sitting half-naked on the roof while the rain still drizzled weakly just over the edge. Arthur tightened an arm he had wrapped around his long naked back, hoping that would be enough and that Merlin wouldn't reach for his shirt just yet.

"Merlin, we can't hope for a peaceful resolution of a decades-old conflict if you can't even get on with your boyfriend's father. I expect you to make an effort."

Merlin lifted his head from where he'd been lazily mouthing at Arthur's neck and blinked at him.

"You're not seriously saying - " he started. His mouth still looked plump, nearly bruised, and Arthur couldn't resist sliding two come-stained fingers between those lovely lips. Merlin gave a short indignant grunt but immediately abandoned the whole talking idea in favour of curling his tongue around Arthur's fingers and slowly and thoroughly licking them clean.

"Wow, this shuts you up," Arthur said smugly, slightly pumping his fingers in and out of the wet ring of Merlin's lips. "That's awesome to know."

"Oh, fuck you, Pendragon," mumbled Merlin and nipped at his fingers in a good-natured warning. Then he clambered back into Arthur's lap, twined both arms around Arthur's neck and set about kissing him completely breathless.


	10. Blood

For a number of reasons, most having to do with the circumstances of his life and upbringing - or, as his left-leaning friends insisted on calling it, his gender-class privilege - Arthur Pendragon had never had that much exposure to housework.

He'd had chores, such as they were. For as long as he could remember, since before he started school, he had to keep his room tidy, make his bed after getting up and neaten up his clothes before turning in: hang up his blazer, put his shoes on the shoe rack, drop the rest in the laundry basket. Everything else was left to the help. There was no reason why the help couldn't take care of his bed and clothes, too – the chores were just Uther's way of imposing discipline and structure, and were mostly symbolic.

Sometime in his pre-teen years, possibly after being politically influenced by watching _Cinderella_ , he'd felt vaguely guilty about lounging around with a book while an elderly woman scrubbed his floors, washed his dishes and ironed his clothes. It took him days to muster up the courage and conviction to talk to his father about it. It took Uther all of two minutes to explain how much more beneficial it was for society on the whole that they chose to provide work and livelihood to those less fortunate instead of wasting their own valuable time on menial tasks.

And there had been fierce competition every time they had a job opening. Father's aide would pre-select a short-list of CVs, with recommendations and certificates, for him to leaf through and choose half a dozen or so candidates to interview personally. For a maid he would only consider a married woman, preferably in her sixties. When Arthur asked him about that – he was fourteen at the time, still too naïve about too many things – Uther said "This is now for your benefit as much as mine", which creeped him out for a good few days.

But the point was, if frail old women could happily do this for a living, day in and day out, then he certainly wasn't going to back down because it seemed too hard.

Arthur gave a tile another angry swipe with a rag and stepped back to assess the results. The tiles were still covered in whitish streaks of the cleaning solution and the grout between them was spotted black where the fungus stains sank in deep. He was going to try bleaching that later. But on the whole the progress was satisfactory.

Of course, back in the Pendragon household the help was paid handsomely for their efforts, he thought sulkily as he chose the next cluster of tiles to scrub at. And they also received very nice Christmas presents.

Well, he'd assumed the presents were nice. It had been Morgana's job to prepare those. The boxes were always big and beautifully wrapped, in any case.

There had been no Christmas presents for the help last year. He and Uther both simply forgot. When they'd realised, Uther had hastily written out some cheques and they stuffed them into envelopes, and even mostly managed to remember all the names to write on those.

The staff – and he still remembered vividly how insulting it all had been – had the audacity to look disappointed. And he was pretty certain that the value of the presents had never been even close to the generous amounts on those cheques. But then, the whole staff had been quite impossible since February last year. The maid had quit in a huff, and Uther had fired the chauffeur for some imaginary wrongdoing, but the new ones too seemed to absorb the general air of loss and grief hanging about the house, and quickly became just as unhappy and brittle as everyone else. The last year and a half hadn't been easy for anyone, even though they never talked about it. Not once.

He threw the rag back into the bucket, and for one bright moment of gloriously unrestrained anger he wanted to pick the bucket up and smash it against the shower room wall, over and over, till he shattered all the tiles he'd just cleaned.

This wasn't helping. The work was supposed to keep him busy, keep him calm and sane. But instead it left his mind free to wander and go into odd places. He didn't feel any calmer. Now, on top of everything else, he was missing home with painful intensity, and he was almost sick with missing Morgana. She's been gone for so long, a year and a half, and he'd thought he was used to her absence by now. But it felt so raw, like poking at a fresh scrape, exactly like it felt when it had just happened and he had no idea how to handle a world without Morgana in it. This wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to lose her. He wasn't supposed to end up in here. This wasn't the life he was meant for.

He had to stop this nonsense before he lost it completely. He had to go back to their cell, wake up Merlin if that slacker was still asleep, and demand to be entertained and distracted. Then he could bring Merlin down here and make him clean the showers with magic. He should have done that in the first place. But he was too proud, he wanted to look after himself and do his own thing instead of relying on Merlin for everything. He already relied on him far too much.

It was all pointless, vain and futile, and it would be best to give up and go with the flow. He could go back to the cell, get into bed with Merlin, spoon together, hug his long skinny body close and try to sleep. He could learn to sleep like Merlin: till midday, with an extra nap in the afternoon, oblivious to everything, letting time pass him by in a sweaty, lazy dream haze. They could hibernate through it all together, day after day, like bears in winter. He could let Merlin take care of everything. They could just wait it all out.

He let himself fantasise about it, the way he'd fantasise about dropping out of school and going backpacking around the world forever, or doing a runner just before a game started, so the team couldn't find him in time and would have to replace him. He used to be ashamed of these thoughts when he was a child, but now he was old enough to know it was perfectly normal. It was okay to be scared occasionally.

He bent down to pick up the rag again and halted when he sensed movement behind him.

The inmates who'd been trailing him as usual were leaving the shower room, quietly filing out of the door. Val stood in the doorway, nodding at them distractedly as they brushed past. His narrowed eyes were trained on Arthur, and dark with hatred that was almost like lust.

"Hello, princess," he said as the last of the inmates hurried out. "How's that tight little bumhole? Still sore?"

A few warlocks still loitered in the hallway just outside, probably keeping watch and hoping to get their turn. For all Arthur knew they have timed this to their advantage, they must have checked that Merlin was still asleep, or sent in someone to keep him distracted. This could potentially be very bad. They could very well kill him, right here, in this dirty shower room. But all he could feel right now was the clarity of adrenaline rush, and the relief at least the waiting part of this fight was finally over.

"Thing about Merlin," said Val. "He's just a bleeding heart. He spared your daddy, adopted that creepy little lad, took you under his wing. I bet he doesn't even fuck you. I bet he tells you every night: don't you fret, Arthur, I'm not gonna shove my cock up your bum like those big bad warlocks did. A blowjob would be just fine. Am I right?"

He slowly tilted his head to the side, smiling a cold, nasty smile. It would've looked pretty menacing, if it wasn't so obviously rehearsed in front of the mirror.

"He's got the power, that's true," he carried on. "But he doesn't have the bollocks to follow through. What's he actually going to do when he finds out somebody's been playing with his toy? Because if he doesn't do enough to scare grown men shitless, then, princess, next night you're anybody's."

"Is that a risk you're willing to take?" Arthur asked. He hadn't pegged Val for a risk-taker.

"Risk's much bigger for you, pretty thing. So here's your choices. We can pick up where we left off, and it will be messy and bloody and it'll hurt like a bitch. And it would be just the start of it for you. Everyone will want a go once they see the great and terrible Merlin doesn't have the stomach to put his power to proper use. Or you can do the smart thing, go down on your knees and open your mouth. If you do a good job nobody will get hurt, and we'll keep this our secret."

"I have a counteroffer for you," Arthur said, since there was nothing to lose by trying. He rinsed the suds from his hands under the nearest shower nozzle and stepped sideways to pick up his towel without turning his back on Val. "I seem to recall you saying you wanted a fight. Well, as it happens, I personally would love a good rumble right now. So let's do this. No Merlin, no magic, no flunkies, just you and me, one on one, hand to hand, no rules. If I win, you back off and I tell Merlin the whole thing's been settled, so he doesn't need to turn you into a frog. And we all live happily ever after."

"And if I win?"

"Then you'd have bested a Pendragon in a way that counts for something."

"What, that's it? Not much of an offer, is it? You still don't get it, do you, princess? I just need to cast one spell and I'll have you squirming on my dick. Again."

"Yeah, and what would that prove?" Arthur shrugged, staring straight into the warlock's grinning face. He felt his gut clench just from the body memory Val's words were conjuring, but it was nothing he couldn't keep under control. "So you can subdue me with you magic. Merlin can obliterate you with his magic. And my father took down both you and Merlin with soldiers, guns and tranqs. And then my father also got fucked over by someone, which is why I'm here in the first place."

That was clearly a bit too philosophical for this particular audience. Val was losing patience, breaking eye contact to check on his goons outside the door. Arthur finished towelling his hands dry and threw the sodden towel back on the bench.

"I'm not sure why you're hesitating, to be honest," he said. "You're a least two stones heavier than me. Maybe not all of that is fat. And I won't even notice if you cheat and use magic, as long as it's subtle. So why are you so scared to fight me?"

One of the warlocks stationed outside made a noise – not quite a giggle, but close enough to make Val turn red and grown deep in his throat.

"Cocky little bastard," he ripped his orange top off and threw it on the floor. "Guess it's going to be bloody and painful for you after all."

He wasn't wearing an undershirt, so he stood there topless, pointlessly flexing his abs and pecs and glaring with extra menace. He had tattoos, as Arthur half-expected, though he hadn't thought they'd be in such vibrant colours and so meticulously detailed. There were two huge, fat cartoonish snakes coiling down Val's arms and another one twisting up his chest. It was probably meant to symbolise something manly and phallic, or at least be yakuza-style badass, but somehow it made Val look like a cross between a man and an Ed Hardy t-shirt.

Merlin normally wore an undershirt, Arthur thought distractedly, rolling his shoulders to limber up. Merlin had really tender, sensitive skin; he needed something between it and the coarse cotton of the uniforms. Even though those prison issue grey vests were so thin and scratchy, they were better than nothing. If Arthur survived this, he was going to get Merlin lots and lots of D&G underwear for his next birthday. Well, after he found the way around the ban on care packages for the Facility inmates.

He needed a good image to centre himself, so he thought of Merlin: tall, skinny and slinky, a shock of dark hair against soft, glowing skin, sprawled teasingly on Arthur's favourite leather couch in his front room, wearing only a pair of tight designer briefs and a gorgeous dorky smile. He let that image fill his mind and chase away all doubt and anxiety, like his coach had taught him, and then he waited.

Val lunged at him without warning, surprisingly fast and light on his feet, and immediately went all out.

Arthur thought Val would be a cautious opponent at first, one of those who dance about forever, feinting and evading till they think they've mapped out all your weak spots. But the man rushed him like a maniac, his blows fast-paced and viciously aimed, each with the full weight of his big, solid body behind them, clearly attempting to channel early Tyson and end it in seconds.

With no referee watching over him going on defence wasn't a viable option, but Arthur managed to evade the initial assault easily enough. He was rusty; this close to graduation he only had time to seriously compete in one athletic field, so he'd dropped all the non-essential training to focus on football. It had been years since he'd fought, but his training was solid, and he had had some talent. In a one on one fight he wasn't going to be an easy opponent for anybody. He let Val carry on with the attack till his pace started to flag, and then sneaked in a left hook, just a glancing shot to the ribs, just enough to give Val something to think about and slow things down. Letting Val wind himself too quickly wasn't part of the plan.

The plan was simple and not overly ambitious, and it was to stall as long as possible. Eventually Val was going to tire out or get bored, and then he'd call on his magic or his buddies, and they would pin Arthur down and – he couldn't let them do it again, not again. He wasn't going to.

The inmates who'd cleared off when Val had arrived were smart enough to want to stay out of trouble. That gave Arthur hope that at least some of them would decide to earn points with Merlin and alert him to what was happening. Merlin was going to show up. Any moment now Merlin was going to show up and save him, and this time Arthur wasn't going to be an ungrateful prat about it. Hell, he was going to kiss that boy in front of the whole prison.

But if Merlin didn't make it here in time, he'd have to stop them himself. The best idea he had was to wait for an opening and land a precise, crippling blow that would cause enough damage to ruin Val's sexy mood. Permanently and for life, with any luck.

That was going to seriously piss off Val's friends. Arthur just had to hope that with their leader incapacitated they would be demoralised and confused. They wouldn't kill him right away, they just wouldn't dare without Val there to encourage them. And they wouldn't – nobody would be able to maintain an erection after having seen what he was planning to do to Val. He'd have to take the inevitable beating, they could do something magic and nasty to him. But eventually they'd turn their attention from him to see to Val's injuries, and then he'd make a break for it. He could make it to the storeroom, it was just down the corridor. He could barricade himself in there and wait for Merlin, and while away the time fashioning weapons out of brooms, aerosol cans and bleach bottles.

He moved with careful precision, saving his strength, letting Val stay on the offensive, meticulously evading, not taking too many chances. Val kept trying to force him closer, luring him in with obvious openings. He was pretty good, with longer reach, slower, but quite a bit heavier. One straight jab Arthur took on purpose, to encourage him, nearly made him lose his footing.

He dropped his guard a little, and Val immediately went for it, aiming to knock him out with a blow to the head. Predictably, he missed and overbalanced. Arthur lunged in, aiming for a kidney, and as he stepped closer the snake on Val's left shoulder raised its head and darted at his face.

He jumped back on pure instinct, before he realised what was happening. Val straightened up with a creepy laugh and spread his arms. All three snakes lifted off his skin, hissing and flashing their needle-thin fangs, rising up till they were level with Val's head. The snakes weren't coming from inside him – their bodies flattened and bled back into the ink lines of the tattoos where they met Val's skin.

"Right," Arthur said. "Remember I said I might not notice if you cheat? I noticed that."

The snakes twisted around and slithered down, pulling themselves out of the drawing to full life. They hit the floor softly and coiled around Val's feet like affectionate kittens. Scaly, poisonous kittens.

"Don't kill him yet," Val said to the snakes. "Just a tiny nibble so he's not as stroppy."

Three triangular heads turned on Arthur with eager obedience, and the snakes started moving, sliding over the dirty floor to circle him in. He staggered backwards, looking for some kind of weapon, anything. He grabbed for the towel and swung it at the nearest snake like a whip, and it dodged with eerie grace, barely shifting in its path.

Val's friends were now leaning into the doorway, laughing and cheering the snakes on. The snakes were herding him into a corner, dancing closer with their heads raised a foot off the floor, making quick lunges at him to force him to move back. While the two of them were hissing loudly and puffing their hoods to hold his attention, the third quietly slunk low and hooked out to a side, trying to flank him.

He could lure it closer and try to step on it and crush its head with his foot. He imagined doing it, the crunch of the thin bones under his shoe, blood mixing with venom and the brain goo and sticking to his sole. He leapt over the snake instead, landing clumsily on the slimy floor, and lunged for his bucket still full of dirty soapy water. The snakes were almost at his heels; he threw the water on them, hoping they could be in some magical way made out of tattoo ink and would melt away like a wicked witch.

They didn't; they didn't react at all. He upended the bucket and slammed it over the snake on the right to trap it under. The metal rim caught its body; there was a disgusting wet crunching sound, and the snake went limp.

The other two hissed furiously, too close now for him to reach the bucket again. He was still holding the towel, he'd just noticed that; he hurriedly swaddled it around his fist, and as one of the snakes darted at him, he thrust that hand toward it.

He didn't feel the sting; the snake's fangs were stuck in the towel and hadn't gone through. The snake's tail whipped around his arm, squeezing it in hard sinuous coils, and he wanted to shake it off, he needed it off him, but it was probably safest like this. The third snake pulled back a little, readying for the next attack.

Arthur stared at its swaying head, its forked tongue lashing out. He was boxed in now, too close to the wall, and the floor under his feet was slippery with spilt water sloshing over the grime. He wasn't going to dodge this, not for long. He was surprised Val and company had even let him flail about this far without hitting him with a magical attack.

The snake lunged at him and instantly disappeared.

The one hanging off his arm was gone as well, and the one he had trapped under the bucket. The shower room was full of people – he hadn't even noticed when they'd arrived. Val was awkwardly splayed against the wall like he'd been shoved there, and Merlin, wonderful, lovely Merlin, stood in front of him, holding up an open palm.

"You took your time," Arthur grumbled as he finally caught his breath.

"Are you hurt?" Merlin asked without glancing at him.

"I'm fine. It's okay, we were just horsing around."

More people kept arriving, crowding the room. They would run in at full tilt and then find a spot to stand by a wall and stay there quietly, watching.

Val's face was beaded with sweat; he wheezed laboured breaths through his teeth like a man with internal injuries. He couldn't move, stuck in an awkwardly tense pose. It looked like Merlin was holding him up against that wall with his magic.

"Merlin, that's enough," Arthur said, trying his best to sound deferential in front of the inmates. He was getting a bad feeling about this. "He's learned his lesson. You don't have to – just let him go."

"I'm not taking chances," Merlin said. His hand, out-thrust toward Val's face, was shaking – but that didn't necessarily mean Merlin was about to lose it, that could be just physical. An all-out run from the cells to the shower room would make Merlin's hands shake, he was such a lazy slob, completely unfit.

"Merlin, calm down," said Arthur softly. "Don't do anything you'll regret. He's not worth it."

"He won't do anything," croaked Val, forcing his face into a grin. "He doesn't have the bottle. As I said. He's all talk. Well, Merlin, you and your bitch better learn to sleep with one eye open, because..."

Merlin flexed his fingers slightly, and Val screamed.

Nobody moved. They all stood and watched as he writhed there in agony, veins standing out on his tense neck in thick ropes. It lasted only a second or two, and then Val tumbled down, released from his invisible bonds, gulping in air.

Muirden pushed through the crowd to get to the front, observing the scene in obvious delight. The druids were flocking together at the far corner: they were the only ones who dared to exchange worried whispers.

"Come on, Merlin, we all know you don't have it in you," Val said, getting up again, still defiant. "If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. What are you waiting for?"

"For more people to get here," Merlin said levelly. "I'm going to make an example. I'd rather not do this twice."

"Merlin," called Tauren from his spot by the wall. "Don't. You can't turn against your own people – not for this. Not over a Pendragon. It won't be forgiven."

"Ah, but Merlin isn't in the position to let anyone defy him and go unpunished," said Muirden gleefully. "There's only so long he can sleep with one eye open."

"I don't know if we're his people, actually," said someone at the door. Arthur thought it might be Aulfric, Sophia's father, but he couldn't see for certain. "I always thought Merlin was half sidhe. That would explain the extent of his power, and explain how Uther Pendragon made him into his lapdog. You can bind a sidhe if you promise them your first-born. That's how Uther bought his life, and now he's delivered his son to his servant in payment - see, it all makes sense."

Somehow that nonsense really stirred the room. Just like Uther always said, the more preposterous the lie, the more fools are sure to believe it. The warlocks began to talk amongst themselves, agitated, inching towards Merlin. The room was so crowded by now – if someone were to attack Merlin, they wouldn't even be able to tell who it was.

"Emrys, please reconsider," said Aglain the druid. "It's a terrible line to cross. We won't stand with you on this."

"I don't care," Merlin hissed through clenched teeth. "He's innocent, and I'll protect him. I'll fight all of you if I have to."

He'd have to, Arthur thought. This was going to turn into a massacre. The warlocks now surrounded them in a tight circle, tense and just a push away from an angry mob. Val seemed to finally understand his situation and stared at Merlin silently, with glassy terrified eyes.

Merlin lifted his palm toward Val's face and began to speak, and at the first guttural word the crowd bristled and rippled like a lake under a sharp breeze, and Val started sobbing.

"No," he moaned. "Not like this. Please, no."

"For Bel's sake, just kill him, don't do this," muttered Aglain.

Arthur didn't know what ghastly thing was Merlin about to do, and he wasn't going to find out. He stepped forward, grabbed Val by the neck and smashed the back of his head into the dirty tiles.

Val slid down, leaving a wet red smear on the wall. His eyes were still open, and Arthur couldn't tell if he was alive, or if he was conscious. There was probably still – he could probably still stop, Val could still survive -

He reached out again. His own body felt odd, huge and slow, an alien thing. He couldn't hear anything, like his head was held under water. Like he was going to start suffocating any second now. He curled his fingers in Val's blood-sodden short hair, lifted his head up a little and slammed it down again, and this time he felt the crunch and the slight give, and he knew it was really final.

He knelt up near the corpse and tried to speak.

"I'm not innocent," he managed, and then he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to ride out the choking rush of nausea. He still couldn't hear them, but as the wave of dizziness passed he realised it was because they all were completely silent.

"Here, we can leave Merlin out of this now," he said when he could breathe again. "He's the best hope you have for the future. If you can't see it..."

He couldn't quite think straight, couldn't quite feel his lips, couldn't make out any faces in the crowd surrounding him. He didn't want to do this on his knees, so he scrambled up, grappling for the wall. There was still no sound, no movement from anyone but him in the room.

"It's me you want," he said. "Six people were killed so I'd end up here. This idiot – that makes seven. Now Merlin - how many lives is this worth to you? How many must die just so you can get to me? Just do it, finish it already. I'll be alone. Find me and take your revenge. If it satisfies you, if it stops the bloodshed, it's worth it."

He started walking straight into the wall of people, knowing that if they grabbed him now, he'd let them, he couldn't fight. They parted for him, still silent.

Merlin caught his hand as he stepped into the narrow corridor of bodies, and Arthur quickly wrenched it free.

"Leave me alone," he said. Merlin jerked backwards as if he'd punched him in the face. "I told you I don't need your protection. I'm not yours. I'm not a – a thing for you to protect. Let me fight my own battles."

Merlin, the ridiculous sop, looked almost on the verge of tears, and Arthur grasped his shoulder and shook him a little to bring him to his senses.

"Merlin, you can stop the war. This is what's important. If your people feel avenged, maybe it will tip the balance, maybe it will change things. You promised me: anything. This is what I want."

He didn't know what else he could say with all of them watching. He pulled Merlin closer and kissed him on the lips, licking quickly into his slack mouth, and then he walked out.

He wasn't followed, for a change. He headed down to the segregation, trying to think up a plan, but his brain was completely numb, and the full feeling wouldn't quite return to his limbs. He stumbled over nothing, and then couldn't get up. He curled up against the wall at the random stretch of a corridor and stayed there.

Time stopped, in a way. He didn't feel any discomfort from sitting on the cold bare concrete, wasn't thirsty or hungry, didn't want for anything. He couldn't think. His mind was a jumble of fleeting half-thoughts, as if he was on the verge of sleep, and he'd like to nap. But he couldn't keep his eyes closed for more than a few exhales before he saw that again: fat slick of blood on the wall, Val's skull warm and wet under his hand, Val's muscled body at his feet, still, awkwardly twisted, a pile of dead flesh.

When he opened his eyes again to chase the image away, there was Mordred. The boy was sitting cross-legged opposite him, staring at his face.

"Hey," Arthur said. "I don't think I can help you fix those swords after all. Sorry about that."

Mordred nodded solemnly.

"Did you really kill somebody?" Arthur asked.

Mordred nodded again, no more troubled by the question than he was by Arthur cancelling their planned activity.

"How..."

How do you live with it, Arthur wanted to ask him, how do you sleep without seeing it behind your eyelids - but he couldn't ask a child those questions. If Mordred could live with it, that was a good thing, and he didn't want to risk ruining his peace.

"How did it happen?" he asked instead.

Mordred scooted closer, reached out a hand and touched Arthur's forehead.

Arthur found himself abruptly surrounded by giants.

He stood in the middle of a flat field of grass, in a crowd of other people, all towering over him. One of them was holding Arthur's hand; he looked down with a reassuring smile, and Arthur recognised Aglain, the druid leader.

"Don't be afraid, Mordred," Aglain said, and finally Arthur caught on. He was in Mordred's memories, watching them through the boy's eyes. He was clinging to Aglain, looking around at the people next to them, other children clutching their guardian's hands, massive stone pillars rising to the sky all around them. Beyond the pillars, a fair distance away, there was an army.

It was, Arthur realised, the day of the Stonehenge riot, the last stand of the druids. He'd read the official press releases and saw one shaky confusing video on youtube before it was taken down, but he still didn't understand what really had happened there.

It was not long after the riot in the Cheshire Facility, just after the tougher measures there introduced: when to harbour a sorcerer was equated to a conspiracy to commit murder. The druids had made a public announcement then, over the internet and their media connections. They were going to leave their hiding places and gather at their holiest site, where they were to stage a peaceful protest. They would refuse to be removed or arrested, and would use magic to stop that from happening. They would have to be either left in peace and allowed to openly establish a settlement there, or subdued – only they said "slaughtered" - in front of the whole world, which, they said, would swing the pendulum of the public opinion and force the government to rethink their policy on magic.

But that wasn't how it went.

"They'll have to leave us be," Aglain said, softly squeezing Mordred's hand. "It'll be okay."

Mordred looked at the armed men, at the sunlight glinting on their guns and their shadowed eyes, and he knew, he just knew.

"They won't leave us be," he said. "They're going to kill us all."

"Don't be afraid," said Aglain again. "Our blood will serve the Balance. It will change everything. Our sacrifice will bring peace."

"I don't want to die," Mordred said.

Aglain stared across the field at the gunmen, and his face was serene and composed.

"Let's chant together," he said. "It will help you stay calm. It won't hurt as much if you're calm."

"I don't want to die," said Mordred and pulled his hand free. "I'm not going to die."

He stepped toward the gunmen and screamed.

Arthur wanted to pull out of the vision, but he didn't know how. He watched through Mordred's eyes as men fell in waves, as those who were still alive opened fire. The bullets were all around them, singing in the air, but Mordred kept channelling the spell, pushing out with his power, and the bullets couldn't reach him.

Some druids fell too, clipped by his spell. Some got shot; some were hastily raising shields and firing spells, most aiming at Mordred, trying to shut him down. He wasn't surprised at the betrayal. They did bring him here to be killed, after all.

He felt like he could do this for as long as it took, pouring out waves of death till he was the last one standing. He had so much power – he never knew, they never let him stretch himself like this, really go for it, and now he would, all the way. The ground was shaking under his feet, and the old stones were juddering against each other, where they'd lain for millennia undisturbed, and it was him doing it. A shadow fell over his face, and he thought it was his power: it was reaching the sky, eclipsing the sun.

When he saw the huge stone tilting toward him it was too late to dodge, and then the vision ended.

Arthur blinked up at Mordred through the mist in his eyes. The boy was looking at him intently, expectantly, and Arthur had no idea what he was supposed to say or do.

"Seriously?" he said in the end. "Stonehenge fell on you? You got smashed by Stonehenge?"

"Just one stone," Mordred said with a thin shadow of a smile. He pushed his hair up his forehead with one small hand, and now Arthur could see a jagged line of a scar running into his hairline.

"Ouch," Arthur said. "How did you even survive that?"

But he knew how. That spell, he felt it: it felt like nothing could go through and touch him till he was drained empty. Several tons of a holy magical rock could've been just enough to make a dent.

Mordred reached for him again, and Arthur tried to pull away, but he didn't have enough space or strength to do it.

This time it wasn't as jarring. He was wading through soft darkness, rising up toward the voices. The loudest, angriest voice was yet unfamiliar to Mordred, but Arthur knew it.

"Is this why you didn't let me join you?" Merlin was asking. "Were you planning this madness even back then?"

Mordred's eyes opened, and Arthur could see.

They were lying on the ground just inside the prison gates, slowly coming to as the drugs wore off. There were other druids here, not many, only those who survived and were taken alive.

"This wasn't what we were planning," said Aglain. His face was covered in bruises, robes bloody.

Merlin stood over him, furious. Arthur knew it was him, could see his face, could tell that this Merlin was a little younger than the Merlin he knew, and even thinner, like he was actually starving. Mordred only saw Emrys, and what he saw was overwhelming.

"You planned a mass suicide pact – how is that better than what happened? Did you throw me out of your forest so you could do this? Did your seers tell you I wouldn't let you?"

"It wasn't your fate to die there with us. You should be grateful," muttered Aglain.

"Was it everybody else's fate, to die like that? All of you, even children like him?"

Emrys pointed at Mordred, and Aglain shook his head.

"He's no longer one of us," he said, and ambled toward the cell block. The others followed him, pointedly not looking at Mordred.

Emrys heaved an exasperated sigh and crouched down next to him.

He was beautiful. He was Merlin, with his sweet mouth and warm eyes and silly ears, and he was Emrys, a pillar of golden light, endless and pure. Arthur could see green veins lacing through the gold that was Emrys's power, growing into him, new and crisp like spring leaves, and he knew they were feeding him with earth's blood, keeping him strong and alive. He could see that Merlin hadn't touched food in days, drunk on the earth's magic, and he worried, and he knew he could help, and he was going to.

He knew - Mordred knew this was only the second time he saw Emrys, and the first time ever this close, close enough to touch. At the same time Arthur remembered kissing these lips over and over, pushing his cock between these lips, and he lusted after him just like before, wanted to reach for him even like this, with Mordred's small hands. Part of him was terrified that his thoughts could be feeding back to Mordred. Part of him that was him and Mordred both was happy to simply stare and drink him in, everything that he was, Merlin and Emrys. He was both and more than that, more than they could ever know.

"You're hurt," Merlin said, looking at the crusted blood Mordred could feel all down the side of his face. "Let me see."

Mordred slapped a hand over the wound: he could feel it throbbing now. It was infected, left untreated by those who brought him here. He cleansed and closed it in one painful rush, not caring if it'd scar, and dropped his hand to let Emrys see that he was fine and he didn't need looking after. He wasn't a child, and he wasn't going to be a burden.

He opened up, fearlessly like never before, and touched his magic to the gold of Emrys's power: reverently, in supplication.

"Can I stay with you?" he asked, not with his voice but with his magic and with everything he was.

Emrys flinched and stared at him.

"Of course," he said after a while, when Mordred was about to start crying. "This is your home now. You can do what you like here."

His magic softly gave way and curled along Mordred's without either of them making an effort – Emrys might not even have noticed. Mordred sobbed in delight and hugged him, throwing both arms around Emrys's middle, falling into the glow of Emrys's magic and the warmth of his long narrow body. Arthur did his best not to enjoy it too much till it was finally over.

"This is my home," Mordred told him slowly, in his scratchy, gruff little voice. "Emrys is my home. If you ruin this I'll never forgive you."

"It's not my intention to hurt anyone," Arthur said, cringing at the sound of his own words. It was the truth; it just didn't sound like the truth when his hands still remembered how it felt to crush a life out of a body, how that crack of the bone had sounded.

"I know. For that I'm going to gift you a dreamless sleep, like Emrys did me."

He whispered a string of lilting sounds, and Arthur's head dropped forward, too heavy for his tired neck; he felt his nose bump smartly against his knee but was already too sleepy to complain.


	11. Warlocks Wake

He couldn't have been asleep more than a few hours, because the light bulb in the little cage on the ceiling was still on, and that meant it still wasn't night-time.

Three inmates were standing in front of him, backlit by that single bulb into becoming flat silhouettes. He couldn't see their faces, and probably didn't know them by name anyway. Merlin wasn't with them. That told him pretty much all he needed to know.

"Get up," said one of the men. "It's time."

Arthur slowly pulled his cold, cramped legs underneath him and stood up, holding onto the wall.

The men gestured toward the exit to the main cell block, back the way he came, and waited.

They were only his escort to the main event, whatever that was going to be. He could fight, but they'd just drag him there thrashing and flailing. At least if he walked by himself he'd still have some dignity.

The men didn't push him or hurry him along, letting him stagger forth at his own pace. They didn't meet a single person the whole way, and when they walked into the cell block it was completely empty.

It had never been empty before, and it had never been this quiet. Even at night this huge room was always buzzing with voices, snores, sounds of hundreds of people sharing enclosed space. Now the silence was so complete that it felt like physical pressure on his eardrums.

"What happened? Where is everyone?" Arthur asked, looking around for signs of struggle, fresh blood or scorch marks on the floor, any clue to what had happened here. "Did Merlin... what did he do?"

"Keep walking," one of the men said.

"Everyone's outside," said another.

Arthur rushed to the doors, stepped outside and froze on the spot.

Everyone was there. He'd never seen them all in one place like this, and hadn't truly realised how many people the Facility held. The yard was packed full. They all sat on the ground in circles arranged around a bonfire.

There was no wood, just a twisted metal frame made from several cell doors fused together. Upon it rested a log-like object about six feet long, tightly wrapped in bedsheets. It was burning without fuel, as if the sheets were doused in petrol, or magic.

Suddenly he knew what that thing in the sheets was.

"It's," he said out loud. "It's a funeral."

"Yeah, dickhead, it's a funeral," said one of the men behind him and shoved him forward a step. "That's what happens when you kill people."

Merlin was there too, in the front row, solemnly watching the corpse burn. Somehow Arthur's eyes immediately zeroed in on him in that sea of bodies in orange uniforms. Aglain was at his side, with the rest of the druids positioned close to them, and Aulfric and Muirden sat nearby as well. Whatever had happened in Arthur's absence, it looked like they'd made peace with each other.

Arthur expected to be led to the centre, to be made part of the ceremony somehow. He didn't really believe that druids practised human sacrifice; even Uther didn't truly believe that. There was never any evidence of that, but they could have been wrong.

Instead the men took him around the circle, by the edge of the yard, and led him to the gates.

"Don't touch the food," said one of them. "We're fasting till dawn."

"Yes, you better show some respect," said another. "He might have been a first grade cock, but he was one of us. So watch yourself."

They left him there and waded into the circle, seating themselves among the others. The moment they settled down the gates began to open, revealing his father and the guards waiting outside, and only then Arthur remembered. Sundown.

None of the inmates stirred from their vigil as the soldiers wheeled food vats in and out.

"What's going on?" Uther asked.

"There has been a death," Arthur said. "It's a funeral."

"Ah. Do you happen to know the name? I'll have to do the paperwork."

"They called him Val."

"Val, oh yes, the chap with the snakes?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "Father, you know I'm not guilty, right?"

"Of course, Arthur. There was never any doubt in my mind."

"I didn't kill those people. I need you to know that."

It seemed more important to draw that distinction now, when he really was a murderer. There was just one life he'd taken. Not seven.

"And I want you to know," he continued. "That you're still my hero, and I'm proud to be your son. Even though I know you've – I know you're – nevermind, that's not important. We've not always agreed, and I know how often I've disappointed you, but..."

"Arthur, is something wrong? Why are you saying this?"

"This death," he said with a shaky nod at the pyre, unable to hold his father's worried eyes any longer. "It wasn't natural causes. It was -"

"You need to remember who they are," said Uther urgently, cutting him off. "Even their magic aside, they're all criminals. They've rioted, plotted treason, resisted arrest, slaughtered innocent people just to terrorise us. Even if it hadn't been self-defence – and it was, regardless of technicalities – it was completely justified. You're not to blame."

He knew, somehow he knew. Arthur nodded, too choked up to speak.

"I told you to do what you needed to stay alive. I meant it, son. Whatever it takes."

And then his eyes strayed toward something over Arthur's shoulder, and his face froze.

Yes, that makes sense, Arthur thought, slowly turning around. They would wait till this moment. They would want his father to watch.

But it was only Merlin, walking toward them in his usual gawky strides. He wasn't even doing his glowing eyes trick. He threw Arthur a quick glance and a wan half-smile and stood by his side, so that their elbows almost touched.

"Sir," he said by the way of a greeting, self-consciously formal, as if Uther was his headmaster. Or, indeed, his boyfriend's father. Maybe that's what it was: Merlin was making an effort to get along. And he'd promised Merlin he'd come out to his father. And, the way things were going, this could turn out to be the last opportunity he'd have to let his father know who he really was.

Arthur grabbed Merlin's hand and laced their fingers together.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said quickly, to get it over with. "About me. And, well, me and Merlin."

He lifted his chin – he wasn't going to do this looking down, as if he was ashamed of himself. Merlin stared at him with huge, wide eyes, his lips parted, his hand completely lax in Arthur's hold. He was the only one who seemed surprised: all the soldiers tactfully looked away, and Uther was nodding, accepting and understanding. Unhappy, resigned, but accepting, and that was more than Arthur had ever dared to hope for.

"Father," he muttered, and then his voice failed him, stuck hopelessly in his throat. Which was just as well, because next words out of Uther's mouth were:

"Yes, whatever it takes, son, as I said. We never need to discuss this"

"It's nothing like that!" Arthur yelled, feeling his face flush. Merlin squeezed his hand, hard enough to hurt.

"No, I agree, we don't need to discuss this," Merlin said. "But there's something I need to ask you. Whatever happens next, I need you to know that I'm doing it for Arthur. If you don't see him here tomorrow, you'll have to trust me that he's safe. Any step you take might make things very dangerous for us. I need you to stay out of this and do nothing."

"How dare you," Uther hissed, drawing himself up. Arthur had seen him bully seasoned politicians into cardiac episodes like this; he'd never had the full force of his father's temper turned on him, and never wanted to.

"Remember the mercy I have shown you," said Merlin. "If nothing else, you owe me your trust."

"I owe you nothing."

"I've seen the box," Arthur said. "I think at the very least you owe him an apology."

"He's a warlock!" Uther yelled, his eyes flashing with real anger, and the first impulse to bow his head and apologise was unnervingly strong.

"He's human," Arthur said instead. "There are limits. We're supposed to be just."

"You – you have no idea what he's capable of."

"I trust Merlin with my life," Arthur said simply, and Uther almost flinched at that.

"What is he planning to do?" Uther asked after a long pause.

Arthur shrugged. He really had no clue. Merlin was probably planning something utterly stupid, and Arthur would have to talk him out of that and come up with a sane course of action by himself, but that wasn't the point right now.

Somehow his gesture mollified Uther the way the words couldn't. He sighed and nodded at Merlin without quite meeting his eyes.

"I'll keep him safe," Merlin said again and wandered off, leaving them to say their goodbyes.

When the gates closed, Arthur stood there for a time, and then walked to the edge of the circle and touched the shoulder of the nearest inmate.

The man looked up at him. He couldn't have been older than sixteen – round-eyed, with a constellation of acne on his forehead and a thin beard that had probably never been shaved.

"Hey," Arthur said quietly. "Sorry. Could you tell me - I don't know this stuff – will it be offensive if I join in?"

"No," the boy said. "Not for this part."

Arthur nodded and sat down, keeping a respectful distance from the others.

The dusk was gathering now, and there was an autumn-cold bite to the breeze. Arthur hugged his knees to his chest and stared into the ground past the dusty toes of his shoes. The vigil was silent; there were no chants or prayers, and everyone seemed deep in their own thoughts.

He probably could have done it differently. At the time killing Val seemed the only way to defuse the situation, but now he wondered if he'd done it because he wanted to.

It had been easy to talk about peace, treaties and negotiations when he was snuggled in Merlin's lap, looking up into his kind, open face. Then he was thinking about all the people like Merlin, caught up in this fight just because they were born into it. But there were others, people like Tauren and Muirden, and after decades of hostilities it was those people, warmongers and terrorists, who would be seen as natural leaders by the magic community. To end the war they might have to negotiate with those. To break the cycle of vengeance compromises would have to be made; a lot of horrible things would have to be forgiven. If he couldn't find the strength to forgive what was done to him and move on, he couldn't expect that of others.

And maybe he could. Maybe one day he'd sit at the negotiation table with the people who held him down while Val plundered his body, and with those who stood and watched, and with those who didn't even care enough to watch, and he'd talk with them about peace. He'd probably be able to do it, because he'd already had his fill of revenge. Because Val wouldn't be there.

It wasn't like him, this wasn't what he used to believe in. He'd only been here for a week – he couldn't imagine what he would become after years of living like this. And most of the inmates in the Facility had grown up like this: hunted, hated, never safe. Merlin grew up like this.

The courtyard was getting dark when he was nudged in the side. It was the same boy he'd spoken to earlier.

"You have to go inside," the boy said. "This part is private."

The crowd had thinned considerably – there were less than a hundred left, and they were busily arranging themselves in a tighter circle around the pyre. The fire had gone out; the druids were doing something to the pyre and the remains, preparing for the next stage of the ritual.

He headed in and only when he was turning the corner to their cell he remembered that it was no longer his. He'd rejected Merlin's protection, he said he'd manage alone. But it seemed like there'd been some new development, and they probably needed to talk about that.

He knew he was fishing for an excuse to see Merlin. He missed him already, his smile, his fluffy eyelashes, his stupid ears, and he needed him right now so badly, just to be around. It was pathetic on many levels, and he was going to get a hold of himself and -

"If you want my opinion, Emrys," came a voice from their cell. "I think the Pendragon boy was given to us as a Sacred King."

"Aglain, Merlin is unfamiliar with this lore," said someone else, and this time Arthur recognised the voice – it was Muirden. "Merlin, sacred in this context means sacrificial."

"That makes no sense," said Merlin. "First, since when do druids practice human sacrifice? I thought it was all propaganda."

"There are very few such rituals," said Aglain. "This one is very old and powerful. By offering the blood of a king back to the earth it's possible to release very potent magic. This ritual can revive barren lands, purge a plague, turn the tide of the war. It could change our world as we know it."

"Still makes no sense. How's Arthur a king? He's just a student."

"He's of the bloodline. He's explicitly consented to sacrifice himself; all the requirements have been met."

"Merlin's right," said Tauren's voice. Arthur was beginning to wonder how many were there and how they all squeezed into that cell. "Sorry, Aglain, this is nonsense. Pendragon's bloodline is useless for the purposes of that ritual. Uther was our jailer and our enemy; he might have controlled our lives, but he never had our fealty. The difference is crucial."

"Well, whoever arranged for him to be here might have been flawed in their reasoning," said Aglain a little gruffly.

"True, true," agreed Muirden cheerfully. "Sadly, age and power don't always go hand in hand with intelligence."

"Edwin, my boy," said the same voice that called Merlin a half-sidhe before. Now Arthur was certain that was Sophia's father. "I know you think yourself very clever. But it doesn't matter how many flashy tricks you master. Until you learn proper respect for your elders you can never become one with the Old Religion. You'll always be a petulant child who was cut off from the source of our true power before you could scratch the surface."

"Yes, yes, you're very old, Aulfric, we're all suitably impressed," Muirden said. "I still think your plan will backfire quite spectacularly."

"We have to do this, Edwin," said Merlin. "Arthur is important. I believe in him. I know he seems like a right prick, but I've got to know him a little, and he's - he's amazing. He's brave, and noble, and kind, he'll never give up, he'll always do what's right..."

"Merlin, please, spare us, we all know you're saying this because you're completely infatuated with that boy."

"No, Edwin, I'm completely – I like him because that's all true. Because of who he is. And yes, sure, he's got an arse to die for, and the loveliest cock I've ever seen, but that's not -"

"You know he's listening outside, don't you?" asked Muirden sweetly.

Merlin didn't say anything, but a few other voices started snickering quietly. Arthur gritted his teeth and walked into the cell.

Tauren was in their only chair, and Aglain sat cross-legged on the floor by the wall. Aulfric was perched at the foot of the bunk, with Merlin curled up at the other end. Muirden was lounging on the top bunk, where Arthur slept, which was downright infuriating.

Merlin was wearing normal clothes: cheap old jeans and several layers of blue shirts with clashing patterns. He was hugging to his chest something that looked like two bundled up coats, and there was a neckerchief wound sloppily around his neck. If that was a fashion statement, it was stating something rather lame.

Still, just seeing him out of the prison uniforms was an unexpected treat. He looked so good; his eyes were brighter and bluer, the right hues turned his complexion from pasty to porcelain, and Arthur ached to touch him.

"Colour suits you," Arthur said casually, keeping it cool. "Did you magic those up?"

"These are my clothes," Merlin said. "I got them from the storage. This is for you."

He pulled out one of the coats and handed it to Arthur. It was a lavender blue duffel coat, almost new and quite nice, except for the whole duffel coat business.

"Okay, what's going on?" Arthur asked.

"We're leaving. You and me are going to find the person who framed you, and we're going to set things right."

"You know who did it?"

"Well, no, we don't. But Aulfric has contacts, he gave me a name and a place."

"My friend is both wise and powerful," Aulfric said pompously. "If he doesn't have the information yet, he'll know how to obtain it."

"Yes, so we'll find whoever sent you here, and we'll ask them to undo it. Because so far it's only brought us conflict and trouble, and we'll explain that. They wouldn't talk to you, of course, but they'll talk to me. I'll make them understand."

"Perhaps there was some unforeseen trouble," Aulfric nodded. "Perhaps things didn't go to plan. Our best option is to confer with whoever set this in motion and learn what the intention was."

"You can't stay here, Arthur," said Merlin. "It won't end well for anyone. It's time we did something."

Arthur folded the coat, trying to organise his thoughts. Just the idea of freedom, safety, possible resolution to this whole mess – he couldn't think straight. He wanted to get out, he needed to be out, and it was happening. Merlin would get him out.

"Wait," he said. "What about the barrier? Can you maintain it if you leave?"

"No."

"Well, then, it's a stupid plan! Haven't you thought about that? We have a truce now, and without the barrier - "

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it," purred Muirden.

"Well, somebody has to! What will happen when people start running? The remote operation will be considered a failure, the army will storm the place and kill anyone who stays, and with hundreds of known warlocks on the loose there will be a national emergency, martial law, you can't even imagine! We can't do this. It's too dangerous for everyone, we need to find another way."

There was a long pause. The warlocks still looked slightly through him, as they've always done: like he was something not quite sentient, not worth making eye contact with. But now there was some new contemplative quality to their sideways stares. Merlin wouldn't look at Arthur either, too busy staring at the others with an inexplicably smug smile.

"I think Merlin has a point," said Tauren. "Maybe we're too old and too bitter to still believe. You know, in one of the new religions there is a story about a man who delivered his people from slavery. He led them to safety, and when they reached their new home, he couldn't enter it. He had too much blood on his hands and too much pain in his heart to live in this new free world, even though he fought and bled for it. Perhaps that's how it must be: we played our parts, for better or worse, and it's time to step aside. It's all up to the kids now."

"How dreadfully maudlin," said Muirden with a theatrical yawn. "Well, shall we get on with this?"

"Yes, it's almost time," Aglain nodded, and they all headed out.

"It'll be okay," said Merlin once they were alone in the cell. "I spoke with everyone before the burial. I told them what you told me – about ending the war. I asked them to let me help you, and for them to stay here till I come back, and they all agreed."

"Of course they did. You said it yourself, they're just too afraid to argue with you. Once you're gone, who knows what they'd do! And Aulfric – you know, he tried to kill me last year. He was inciting them against you just a few hours ago – why would he be so helpful now? It's a setup, it has to be."

"It's the only plan we have," Merlin got up and shrugged on the enormous parka he'd been holding. "Come on. No, wait," he quickly kissed Arthur's lips, and pulled back resolutely. "Okay, let's do this."

The cell block was teeming with people. They were everywhere – standing by the walls, leaning over the railing on the upper levels, waiting in the walkways as they went past. Most of them gave Merlin a wave or a nod as he walked by, and he nodded and smiled in return.

"I won't be long," he kept saying.

"Bring us some fish and chips!" shouted someone, and that started a whole chorus of requests, ranging from beer and curry to a squad of hookers.

"Magic some up, slackers," Merlin giggled and led Arthur up onto the roof.

The sky was pitch black, but the roof was brightly lit by eerie glowing spheres that were scattered about on the concrete. Arthur stepped around them carefully, just in case. Muirden, Aulfric and a few others were fussing together over a spot by the northern edge, drawing complicated lines with coloured chalks. Aglain was directing them, somehow aligning their doodles with the position of the Moon in the sky. Next to them Tauren was reading something from a notebook, tracing the lines with a pencil and muttering to himself.

"Okay, we worked out the technical details back in my room," Merlin said. "This part is slightly tricky. The thing about the barrier is that I didn't really think it all through when I put it up. So over time I sort of, uh, fused myself into this location. I'm more or less stuck here. Walking away would be like turning myself inside out."

"I'm not even surprised," Arthur sighed. "That is just so you, Merlin."

"You don't understand how complicated it is to – oh, never mind, why do I bother explaining these things to you? It's like teaching nursery school sometimes."

"Fine, fine, so how are we getting around that?"

"I have to sever my connection to the land. Which I can do, but then there will be a bit of a rift where the connection was and it will partially go through me, and it's not a good thing."

"I didn't think I could like this whole plan any less, but there you go. But this thing they're drawing, is it going to protect you?"

"In a way, yeah. It will teleport us about forty miles East from here. That should give me enough distance to lessen the effects. Also that way we won't have to sneak past the perimeter, which is great because I might be, um, a bit disoriented after I do this. I won't be up to much for a while."

"Right. Apart from disorientation, what sort of effects are we talking?"

"Hard to tell," said Merlin shortly. "Edwin, is your spell ready?"

"Tauren's just checking my maths," Muirden replied, wiping chalk off his palms.

"All looks good," nodded Tauren. "This is very clever, Edwin, I must say."

"Why, thank you. Some of my best work. Merlin, if you please?"

Merlin took the notebook from Tauren and flipped back to the first page.

"I don't think this will hold very well, even if I cast it," he said, skimming the writings.

"This is why we call it a fake barrier spell," said Muirden testily. "It can withstand a few shell blasts. If that doesn't convince the invaders that our impenetrable defences are still in place, then yes, gentlemen, we're screwed."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," sighed Tauren. "I'll rig it up to the power grid later. That'll give us a boost."

Merlin nodded and began reading from the notebook out loud, slowly, pausing between what could be sentences. In the sky above them something shimmered, as if moonlight was caught on a giant metal cobweb. As Merlin continued reading the spell, the shimmer changed colour, rippled in radiating waves, and disappeared.

"Excellent work, Merlin, thank you!" cheered Muirden, clapping. "Really, it's such a pity. What a pointless waste of a great talent."

"Edwin, enough," said Merlin. "I don't want to hear any more of that. Arthur, let's..."

The door to the roof slowly creaked open. Mordred shuffled through, looking tinier than ever, shivering, his face screwed up in misery.

"Don't," he said. "Emrys, don't."

"Mordred," groaned Merlin. "We talked about this. Go back to your room, please."

Mordred pushed off the doorpost, ran across the roof and caught Merlin's arm.

"Emrys!" he yelled, clinging tight, hanging on with all his weight. Merlin frowned and yanked his hand free, and the boy stumbled backward and started crying, choking on sobs, tears streaming freely down his face.

Arthur lunged forward, knelt in front of him and grabbed his shoulders. Mordred felt so small and fragile underneath the bulky clothes: tiny sharp bones, thin arms, all of him quaking with the force of his weeping.

"Don't cry, Mordred," he said. The boy wailed louder and tried to break free, but stopped struggling right away. Crying robbed him of all breath, he just didn't have the strength. "He'll come back. I promise you. I won't let anything happen to him. He'll be back. Look..."

He let go of Mordred and pulled his signet ring off his finger.

He hadn't taken it off in six years, he hardly ever remembered he was wearing it. For a second he thought it wouldn't come off, but eventually he managed to wrench it past the knuckle and pressed it into Mordred's cold hand:

"This is very important to me. My dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. Look, this is my family crest. I'd never part with it if I didn't know I'd get it back. Keep hold of it till Merlin returns. Then you'll give it back to me, when I come to visit."

Mordred stopped crying. He stared down at the ring and tightly closed his fist around it. Then he gave Arthur a very odd grin, turned on his heel and sprinted to the exit.

"Not good," muttered Merlin under his breath and walked to the centre on the chalk drawing.

"Quite amusingly ironic, however," said Tauren glumly. "Pendragon, you need to be standing behind Merlin."

Arthur picked up the duffel coat and put it on. He wasn't keen on wearing some inmate's cast-offs, but the nights were getting cold; he was pretty chilly already.

"Whose is this, anyway?" he asked, joining Merlin inside the central circle of the diagram.

"I don't know, I just grabbed it from the storage. I thought the hood might be handy for travelling," Merlin said.

"It's mine, actually," chirped Muirden. "I got it from Harrods. Oh, don't cringe like that, sweet prince. It's not the only thing of mine you're currently borrowing."

"Edwin," said Merlin wearily. "Shut up. Don't listen to him, Arthur, it's not even his size."

The warlocks surrounded the drawing, each of them taking position at one of the smaller circles evenly spaced over the perimeter of the drawing.

"Keep your limbs inside the line at all times," Tauren said. "Pendragon, you'll have to hold Merlin still. He'll be..."

"Disoriented, I know," Arthur nodded and awkwardly curled an arm around Merlin's waist.

"Not like that. Pin his arms. Don't let his body sway, whatever happens."

Arthur pulled Merlin closer and wrapped both arms around his chest, trapping his elbows between their bodies.

"All right, I'm doing it," said Merlin. He inhaled deeply – Arthur felt his narrow back moving against his chest as his lungs expanded – and started slowly breathing out. Almost immediately his whole body tensed, locked rigid; he moaned and attempted to double over, but Arthur held him tight.

"The faster you break the link, the better," Aglain said. Merlin grunted and pushed upright for a second, and then convulsed violently, over and over, as if he was being tasered, his throat spasming around a ragged scream. The sky overhead lit up again, this time with bright, angry yellow glow; Arthur didn't dare to look up, concentrating on keeping Merlin clear of the edges of the circle.

"Hold him still!" the warlocks were yelling. "He's almost there – be ready, everyone!"

The chalk lines around their feet began to glow, blurring and changing colours. Merlin lost his footing and was hanging heavily in Arthur's arms, still thrashing wildly and making awful pained sounds.

"Is this normal?" Arthur cried, searching the warlocks' faces. "Is he okay?"

"Keep him still!" yelled a few voices at once.

"Have faith!" Aglain was bellowing. Next to him Muirden was watching them, stone-faced, with something like regret in his eyes.

Merlin arched backwards and screamed. It was a sound of a man in complete agony, and all Arthur could do was hold him upright, with his arms pinned, and bear with it – he didn't know how much more of this he could take.

"There is no possible way he can survive this," said Muirden, and Arthur nearly lost his hold on Merlin. He was about to yell, protest, demand for the spells to be aborted, but just then Merlin stopped flailing in his arms and the sky went black.

"Now!" he heard someone scream, and all the warlocks went down on one knee and slammed their palms into the glowing symbols. The drawing exploded upwards, every line turning into a blade of white light.

It took him some seconds to regain vision, and a few more to figure out that he was lying on his side, with his arms still locked around Merlin's body. He let go; Merlin was still, not screaming, not shaking. The pain must have stopped.

They were in a grazing field, lying on short cool grass. There was a dark copse nearby, and a neatly trimmed line of bushes further off separated the field from a country lane, or from another field. There was a string of pale lights far away, a village road, perhaps, and a clump of dark shapes at the far edge of the field – a farm, or maybe a caravan park, he couldn't tell. The landscape was flat, stretched luxuriously in every direction for countless miles, the dark sky shading delicately into lighter blue where it sloped toward the horizon. The moon was peeking through scant clouds, and everything under it was still and perfect, outlined in the silvery light. Arthur could see every branch on those trees, every blade and leaf of the grass, and the splendour of it all was breathtaking, literally so, making his throat so tight he nearly sobbed aloud.

"England is so beautiful," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "Merlin, look."

Merlin was quietly staring upwards with his eyes wide-open, unblinking. His face, bleached by the moonlight, was smooth and expressionless and far too still.

Arthur shook him by the shoulder. Merlin's head rolled on the grass limply, and still he didn't blink.

"Merlin!" Arthur yelled in his face, grabbing for his thin wrists. He pressed his fingers in the dips between bones and couldn't feel anything. But he was panicking, he was flustered. He must have been doing it wrong. He pushed the parka out of the way and flattened his ear against Merlin's chest, at the same time groping with his hand between Merlin's collarbones, at the sides of his neck, searching for the pulse.

There was nothing; no breathing, no heartbeat. Not a single sound or movement.

"Merlin, Merlin, don't, please," Arthur muttered, not even thinking about it. He couldn't keep his hands still, they were shaking on Merlin's skin, he was shaking all over. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't focus his eyes. It wasn't true, it couldn't be happening, it couldn't be, he couldn't -

He shoved a side of his hand in his mouth and bit down, not feeling any pain, till everything became slightly clearer.

"CPR," he said to himself.

He made sure Merlin was flat on his back, braced his hands in the right position and pushed.

"One, camera, two, camera, three, camera, four," he counted out loud. Merlin's chest didn't feel solid enough, like he could easily break all his ribs if he pushed too hard, but he knew he had to exact force for this to work. He prised Merlin's jaw open, sealed their mouths together and exhaled long and hard down Merlin's throat.

Merlin winced and coughed, and that was entirely disgusting. Arthur tasted bile and blood, but still couldn't pull back for a second, kissing Merlin's quivering lips fiercely. Then he gathered him into his arms and crushed him close, just to feel him breathe.

"You stupid jerk, your heart had stopped," he hissed into Merlin's ear. "How could you – I'm going to kill you once you're better. You knew this could happen. You knew and you did it, fuck, Merlin, I hate you so much. So very much."

Merlin sobbed weakly against him, his fingers curled tight around Arthur's arms.

"I can't use my magic," he mumbled. "Can't control it, it's all torn up. It hurts."

"Just hold on, it'll be okay. Look, I think there's a caravan park there. There'll be a guard, and he'll have a phone. I'll get you an ambulance. Just hold on a few more minutes."

"They can't help me," moaned Merlin through gritted teeth.

"They can do something! Painkillers, at least! Warm bed, crash cart on standby..."

"I'm in the system. They'll know who I am."

"Yes, but I'd much rather have you arrested than dead."

"They won't arrest me the second time," said Merlin, pulling back from the embrace. His face was streaked with tears, and he looked so ill, in so much pain. "They're supposed to shoot fugitives on sight. I'm helpless right now; they'll kill me."

"Right, of course," Arthur said. Now he remembered, and couldn't believe he'd forgotten and let Merlin go on the run and take this risk. But, considering the bigger picture, this wasn't the time to squabble over that. "Right. What can I do? What do you need?"

"I'll be fine. If I keep my magic still, it will heal up eventually. I just need to rest a little."

He stretched out where he lay, breathing slowly, with his both hands fisted tight in the grass, trying to relax into the pain. He managed that for a few seconds, steadily getting paler with each breath, and then flopped to the side and retched painfully, over and over. Nothing came up, apart from a few wispy strands of white glow that sluggishly rolled off his lips and melted into the air.

"See, better already," he muttered breathlessly and passed out, with his face pressed into the clover leaves.

He didn't stir for over an hour, and when he did his first words were:

"Cup of tea."

Arthur snorted with relief and amusement. He sat on the edge of the bed, cradled Merlin's head and raised the steaming mug to his lips.

"Cup of tea," cooed Merlin, blinking sleepily and taking small sips. "We meet again. You're delicious."

"It's only naff teabags," Arthur said. "I ripped them up though, so at least it's properly infused."

He'd been trying not to look at Merlin too much while he was unconscious, so he wouldn't freak himself out. He just hovered close and checked Merlin's pulse and breathing every few minutes. As he had hoped, waking up instantly made Merlin look a lot better. Some colour returned to his face. His eyes were still sunken and ringed with deep shadows, but they were open and bright and glittering with the simple pleasure of drinking cheap tea black, no sugar, and somehow finding it lovely.

Merlin drained the mug, shifted in Arthur's arms and looked around: at the wood-panelled walls, the electric kettle rumbling on the counter by the window, cheery bed linens printed all over with happy lambs.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"In a caravan."

"What?"

"A caravan, Merlin. I don't know where your culture shock is coming from. Caravanning is a traditional past-time of your people."

"Of... warlocks?" Merlin asked, looking incredibly daft. The hair on the back of his head was standing up in a small adorable tuft, which was just completing the picture.

"Working class."

"You know, Arthur, when you stand for MP, make sure you campaign on issues, not personality, because as a person you're – oh fuck, Arthur, you broke into somebody's caravan!"

"I knew you'd catch up eventually. Another cup of tea?"

"We can't stay here, it's too dangerous," Merlin said, furiously trying to wriggle out of the blankets. Arthur had tucked him in perhaps a little too thoroughly. "Come on. We'll find a barn or something."

"Merlin, for all I know you just had a heart attack. You're not sleeping in a barn. It's all right, relax, I checked everything. The park is empty, these blinds are solid, there are no cameras and the only guard is about a hundred and ten and fast asleep. We'll be out of here at the first light. Just rest for now."

He fetched the can of soup he'd been reheating over and over for the last half an hour and handed Merlin a spoon.

"Try to eat. Tell me if you're going to be sick, I'll get you a bowl."

"How did we even," Merlin asked between swallowing cautious spoonfuls. "Did you carry me here?"

"Yeah, you weigh about as much as a labradoodle, it was hardly a feat of strength."

"And you undressed me," commented Merlin, peeking under the blankets.

"Just so you're comfortable. And I didn't undress you, technically, I left your underwear on. I prefer if people are conscious and helpful when I strip them naked."

Merlin smiled, handed him back the half-eaten soup and reclined into the pillows.

"You're kind of enjoying this, aren't you," he said.

"Not being in prison? Kind of loving every second of it, yes."

"No, being in charge. Looking after me," he said with a sly sidelong glance, slow flutter of his eyelashes, shadows of dimples around his smile. By now Arthur knew him well enough to recognise this coy routine as premeditated, shameless flirting, but it still didn't fail to affect him.

"I think we both agree I'm better at it than you are," he said a little unsteadily.

"Pillock," sighed Merlin affectionately. "Sleep with me. I'll get cold alone."

Arthur switched the lights off, stripped and climbed into the bed, slid under the blankets to where the sheets were warm from Merlin's body. The bed was narrow, hardly wider than a prison bunk; while he was still figuring out where to tuck his arms and point his knees, Merlin turned just a little and slotted himself against him perfectly, snugly, spooning them together. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin's waist, marvelling at how simple the solution was.

They lay there, breathing in the dark, warming up against each other.

"I might be like this for a while," Merlin said. "Pretty much useless."

"I'm sure I'll find a use for you," said Arthur, brushing his lips over the fine skin on the back of his neck. Merlin tasted of illness and sour sweat, but that only made Arthur mouth at him harder, the knowledge that Merlin was alive, didn't die, suddenly bright and new in his mind.

"Mmm," Merlin wriggled his skinny hips, grinding against Arthur's crotch. "Do you want to? We haven't yet..."

"No," said Arthur firmly. "You need to rest."

"C'mon," Merlin pushed down his boxers, and Arthur's hardening cock pressed against smooth bare skin of his backside. "You can, just like this, just..."

"Don't even."

"Yeah, maybe we shouldn't," Merlin drawled, still undulating softly against him. "We already broke into these people's caravan, ate their food. Staining their sheets would be..."

He shifted and lifted his arse, and Arthur's cock slid between his legs, nested snugly in the warm soft place there. It was almost impossible not to thrust into that tightness, but Arthur stoically managed, kept almost still, as Merlin pressed his thighs together, giving him gentle teasing squeezes.

Arthur just started to lose his resolve, panting into Merlin's neck and palming the sharp angles of his hipbones, when Merlin stilled and said:

"I'm worried about Mordred."

"Ahh. I can't believe that little shit is still cockblocking me even when he's not here."

"I wish you hadn't given him your ring."

"He's a small kid. We left him there all alone. He needs something to hold on to."

"Now he can track you anywhere."

"That's good. He can find us if he needs us."

"Arthur, you have no idea what he's capable of."

"Now you sound like my father," Arthur said viciously. "Are you trying to give me an erectile dysfunction?"

Merlin laughed bitterly and kicked him in the shin.

"I don't know how you do this," he said after a long silence. "How can you trust us? Even me?"

"Same way you trust me, I guess."

"That's different. I wasn't raised in a temple. None of my friends had magic, I knew they were still good people. But when you were growing up, to you anyone with magic was always just the monster at the end of this police report."

"No, that's where you're wrong, actually. You're not the first one with magic whom I cared about."

"Oh," said Merlin in a small voice. His whole body relaxed a little, shifted closer, melting into Arthur's. "I had no idea. Tell me about them?"

"Hm. Maybe someday. I don't want to dredge that up right now."

"Are they alive?"

"I don't know."

Merlin nodded sadly, fussed with his pillow a little and soon was breathing steadily and deeply, heavy and warm in Arthur's arms. With his eyes closed Arthur could almost imagine that they weren't squatting in a shitty mobile home in a field somewhere. They could be in Mayfair, in his room, in his own bed, with the city slowly settling down for the night around them. They could've been on a date, could have had a great dinner and watched a horrible movie together, and now Merlin was spending the night.

One day, maybe, that could really happen. It certainly was something worth working towards.


	12. Cathedrals

The bus was cold and stuffy at the same time, and it was roaring and juddering constantly as if it was liable to fall apart at any moment. Arthur's knees kept bumping into the seat in front, the worn upholstery exuded a very odd smell, and there was no way to get comfortable.

"Worst mode of transport ever," he huffed, shifting his legs for the hundredth time.

"Tauren said the bus is the safest way. He ran his group for years, he knows that stuff," said Merlin dully. "He said, never get into a car, you'll end up on thousands of cameras. Never enter a train station, they're crawling with security. Besides, bus is the cheapest. I can't make money right now."

He sat very still, even though his long legs must have been cramping in the narrow space between the seats, and stared out of the window. Arthur followed his example for a while and felt himself unwinding a little, soothed by the beauty of the lush hilly countryside, bold lines of the landscape and the strength of the gnarled trees clinging to the rocky inclines.

"I love this county," he said. "Cheshire was nice, flat and green, but this is great too. I've been to every continent, and yes, they have flashy things, waterfalls, dunes, glaciers. But when it comes to real beauty, this island wins hands down. There's just no place like it."

"Doesn't look real," said Merlin miserably. "Like in the old movies, you know? The actors sit in a stationary car, and the moving scenery is projected on the back window. I feel like this all is an illusion."

"No, we're really outside. I know, took me a while too. How do you feel, does it still hurt?"

"Not really."

"You look like you're in pain. Seriously, you look like crap. Like, I don't know, an addict with DTs."

"Well, I am, aren't I? I've been hooked on the good stuff for a year. Now my whole body is learning to live without. I never said this was going to be pretty."

Arthur slid an arm around him and pulled Merlin's head onto his shoulder. Merlin gave an annoyed little huff, but stayed there and stuffed his cold hands under Arthur's coat.

"Just my luck," Arthur said, petting his hair.

"Yes, everything is about you, naturally."

"No, seriously. I hook up with a fit, powerful man, the real top dog type, and somehow end up with a broke strung-out junkie on my hands. What the hell, I ask you?"

Merlin giggled and said gravely:

"Such is the lament of all men, as my doctor used to say."

"Really? You had a family doctor? Oh, I guess you mean some NHS person."

"Yeah, what the hell, how did I end up with such an entitled posh git? I meant my doctor in prison."

"Ah, right."

An old lady across the aisle gathered her bags and demonstratively moved a few rows forward, radiating disapproval.

"It's okay, love, he's been deloused," Arthur told her pleasantly as she brushed past them.

"You suck at keeping low profile," Merlin muttered when she was out of earshot.

"Me? Never mind, tell me more about this meeting."

"Aulfric just said, be at the cathedral after dark. His guy will find us."

"We can still call my father," Arthur said carefully. "No, will you just listen? We need a back up plan. If the guy won't cooperate, father's men can pick him up and..."

"And what? Torture him for information?"

"Well. Um. They could cut him a deal."

"No, forget it. Besides, they can't arrest him. He's not even corporeal."

"Fantastic," Arthur sighed. "Our only lead isn't even corporeal!"

It was already dark when they got into town. They blew most of their remaining money on incredibly tasty sandwiches and vanilla lattes, and then loitered in the alleys, waiting for the last of the tourist crowd to dissipate from the cathedral square.

The caffeine was going straight to Arthur's head, every sip delivering a small jolt of clarity somewhere behind his eyeballs. The texture of the bread was fascinating, something he could have spent days exploring and pondering, like a soggy revelation against the roof of his mouth. The filling was bland and didn't really taste anything like chicken despite what the label said, but it was even better like this: nothing overshadowing the deliciousness of the bread, all flavours fusing subtly together. He even liked that the lettuce was wilted. It made the taste more mellow, gave it an exciting, complex warm hint, like poached spinach on a pizza.

Suddenly he bitterly regretted not going for pizza instead.

"I think I'm feeling better," said Merlin, licking the last of the coffee from inside the rim of the cup. He looked frantically bright-eyed, still riding out the pleasure of the junk food high. "Maybe I just needed some solid food in me. You know, bad as this is, it's making me stronger."

"There's a time and place for character building exercises, Merlin, and this isn't it."

"No, I mean literally. My magic is still all in shreds, and it's never going to be like it was when I was connected to the earth, not on my own. But it's healing up stronger than it used to be. I can already feel the elements like I never could before. Maybe I could try a spell tomorrow."

"We'll see. I'd rather you didn't rush it, injuries have to heal... Do you think we should stand over there? So the guy can see us?"

"He'll find us, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. Why would I be worried, it's only my single shot at clearing my name, what's to worry about? Hey, what if he's invisible? Being non-corporeal, makes sense. How will we know if he's here?"

"I'm here," said an unfamiliar voice very close, right at his back. They both startled and spun on the spot.

"Hullo," said Merlin uncertainly. The man behind them was visible, in his thirties, gaunt and tired-looking. He had awful 70s cop show hair and moustache and wore a floor-length leather coat and a thick golden necklace, displayed proudly over a fantasy print t-shirt. He didn't look wise, powerful or even trustworthy.

"We don't know if it's him," Arthur hissed.

"Yes, we do," Merlin said. "I can tell. It's an honour to meet you, Cornelius."

"Oh, no, no, the honour is all mine. Shall we get off the street? We can have more privacy at the back."

They walked over to the fence, keeping to the shadows around the square, and climbed over, into the cool darkness of cloister gardens.

"Looks pretty corporeal to me," muttered Arthur, watching Cornelius awkwardly pull his thin legs over the railing. Merlin elbowed his side in a silent warning.

There were no lights in the gardens, save for whatever filtered through the trees from the street behind them. The white-grey stones of the cathedral loomed through the darkness, complicated lines of columns and carvings broken by the glittering black of tall unlit windows.

"Aulfric sends his regards," Merlin said belatedly. "He thought you might be able to help us."

"Good old Aulfric," nodded Cornelius. "How much has he told you about me?"

"He said you're older than him, and much more powerful. He said you're very wise," said Merlin with great reverence quivering in his voice, the power of adorable puppy eyes turned up to eleven. "He told me that you were betrayed and captured many years ago, and you left your body behind, to escape, and that only made you more powerful than they could ever imagine. He also said you might know who framed Arthur Pendragon."

"Hmm," said Cornelius, pensively eyeing Arthur. "I might, I might. Let me look at you, young man."

He lightly touched Arthur's shoulders, turned him to face the faraway street lights, leaned in, looking suspiciously as if he was sniffing Arthur's hair. Then he touched a fingertip to Arthur's lower eyelid and pulled it down a little, peering into the edges of his eyeball. Arthur patiently let him explore, didn't wince, held his tongue against all the questions he was dying to ask.

"Good blood, good stock," said Cornelius approvingly. "You have your father's strength. That doesn't often breed true. I like you. Now you, Merlin, may I?" he pressed his palm against Merlin's forehead and sighed sadly. "Oh, child. What have you done to yourself."

"It'll heal," said Merlin sullenly.

"Ah, youth," Cornelius shook his head. "You think your every love will last forever, every battle is the greatest. You think you can burn yourselves out every day, not leaving anything for the years to come. You've torn yourself to pieces for this boy you barely know, left yourself defenceless, at his mercy. Not many can love like this, and none can forever. Seems that fate has been pointlessly cruel to give this kind of heart to Emrys."

Merlin frowned, and Cornelius touched his face again, caressing his cheek in the way Arthur didn't like at all.

"You don't even know who you are, do you, Merlin? Perhaps it's time you did. I know it's not the question you came to ask me, but I think young Pendragon can wait a little, while I help you understand your destiny. That's the least you owe him, isn't that right, Arthur?"

"Of course."

"Then listen. A few centuries ago..."

"We really need that information, about Arthur being framed...," started Merlin, and now it was Arthur's turn to elbow him in the ribs.

"Look, a nice old man wants to talk to someone," he whispered to Merlin angrily. "Respect your elders, for fuck's sake. We need him to keep liking us."

"Sorry, yeah," said Merlin contritely. "Please tell us all about that exciting thing that happened in ancient times."

Cornelius smiled indulgently and carried on:

"A few centuries ago, at the height of what we now call the Golden Age of the Old Religion, something had happened to the magic. Just when the whole world seemed to be at our feet and our reign was no longer disputed by anyone, when no external threat was worthy of our notice, the trouble came from within. The magic began to wane. Less and less were born with the gift. Less and less of our students could match the skills of the previous generations. Even the best of us started to feel our power seep away. Carefully maintained balance, the divides of influence that had been in place for millennia, started to crumble. We became paranoid and turned on each other. That's when the Arcane wars began. At the end of that dark time the survivors held a council, and it was decided that we would withdraw from the affairs of the world before we weakened enough for the people of the land to wage war against us."

This was nothing like the history Arthur had studied, but Merlin was nodding along, as if he'd heard all that before.

"It was prophesied that the magic would return to us, stronger than ever, and that it would rise from the blood of the Old Religion. But only very recently we were given signs of a person who would be instrumental in this revival. Opinions were divided, but the High Priestess took it upon herself to approach the man she believed was the one, and set him on his path. That man was Uther Pendragon."

"How recently was that, exactly?" Arthur asked. He couldn't imagine any sorceress ever approaching his father, except for the purposes of casting a deadly curse.

"About twenty, twenty five years ago, I think. As you know, Uther betrayed her and turned against us, and the war we'd been fearing for so long began. Some think the High Priestess made an awful mistake. But a lot of us believe that this all was meant to happen. Uther Pendragon has fulfilled the prophecy: he bled the Old Religion till it yielded what was promised. A gift of pure magic, a being of immense power. It birthed Emrys."

"And you think that's me," Merlin said blankly.

Arthur only grasped the most general idea of what Cornelius was talking about, but that was enough. He'd spent all last week amongst warlocks who constantly spoke over his head in code and riddles. But even before that he'd had a lifetime of practice eavesdropping on his father's conversations he was too young for, didn't have security clearance for, had no business being a part of. He didn't need to understand all the details to figure out the possible implications.

He didn't know how magic worked, and if there was any truth to what Cornelius was saying. But that didn't really matter. If enough people believed it to be true, the weight this would put on Merlin's shoulders would be enormous, too great to even think about.

Arthur still remembered something Uther had said once, even though it was over ten years ago. They were talking about his grades – he'd been struggling with a few subjects – and in the midst of Uther's long litany, he said: "I won't have you wasting your potential. Your mother gave her life so you could be born; the least you could do to honour her sacrifice is amount to something!"

He said later that he misspoke. He took it all back, he even apologised. That wasn't what had happened: Arthur's mother was killed by a magical curse, just as Uther had always told him, before and since. But he could never forget what he felt at that moment. If Merlin believed that countless people had died and suffered so he could be born, and it was his job now to honour their sacrifices and repay those debts - Merlin didn't need that. Arthur didn't want that for him.

"Come on, that's nonsense," he said. "You can't possibly believe that Merlin – Merlin! - is some sort of chosen one. Just look at him! He's Merlin!"

"We know it's you," Cornelius said, ignoring him. "The druids discovered you first. Their faith never wavered. The others had their doubts. They didn't have the will and, later, the opportunity to perform the only conclusive test. But you did it yourself when you shattered your place of power. Now we know."

"What do you know? What does it prove?" Arthur insisted. "He nearly died doing that! I had to CPR him, I thought he was gone!"

"Yes, exactly," said Cornelius with a creepy smile. "Merlin, you're the one we've been waiting for. You're the blood and tears of your people. All the power we've lost has been bestowed upon you, it's in your care now. You're our only hope for a better future, and you can't turn your back on your destiny. You owe us this."

"You want me to do something," said Merlin quietly. Darkness was concealing his face, and Arthur couldn't read him, couldn't figure out his state of mind. "Just tell me what it is."

Cornelius clasped his shoulder, chuckling gleefully, and turned Merlin around to face the cathedral.

"I have big plans for you," he said. "But here is where we can start, and this is the reason why I asked you to come here. Look at this place. It's constructed on the same principles as every temple of the Old Religion has been since the dawn of the time, when a temple was but a circle of rocks in a field. This one is only an imitation, but it's almost immaculately built – the location, the shapes, the lines of symbols, everything is as near perfect as it could've been, considering that the builders only had tradition and guesswork to guide them."

He reached a hand toward the walls and heaved a long sign of delight.

"This, like every temple, is a conduit for the power of worship," he continued. "Of course, nowadays only a tiny fraction of the pilgrims come here to worship the one this temple is dedicated to. The rest worship still, but they worship the craftsmanship, the vision, the history embedded in these walls. They worship the temple itself, and it absorbs the power, keeps it in, and glows with it. It draws in the lost children of the Old Religion who cling to its warmth. I see them here sometimes: the ones who escaped capture, or never had a true home. Pitiful, ragged creatures, their magic in tatters, their spirits ground to dust. They drift to the places of power because it's their natural instinct, but they're too weak and frightened to take what's theirs. Instead they let the building siphon out their power in exchange for empty solace and moments of comfort, and then they flee again, to sink further into the shadows. But it doesn't have to be this way. I know what you did with the Facility, Merlin. Once you've healed, you will do the same here. I will teach you how to take this place for your own and drain it of all this power, and once you do it, you'll be godlike. This will be the true fortress of the Old Religion. Here we would gather those of us who are still strong and free. In this ancient heart of our land our freedom shall be reborn."

"You want me to make a fortress in a city centre. In a tourist spot. Basically, you want me to start an all-out war," Merlin said. "You know that everything I did in the Facility was to prevent just that. This isn't the future I want for us. I'm not going to do it."

"Not even for Arthur?" Cornelius asked sweetly. "Not even to see your little darling home and safe? It can be done, you know."

"Arthur won't be home and safe for long if the real war begins."

"True. But you don't have to send him back to the enemy camp. You can keep him with you, here," Cornelius suggested easily. "I think you'd prefer that anyway."

"I don't want to keep him. He's not a thing. Cornelius, please listen. There is another way. There can be peace - "

"Yes. Once we've dealt with the opposition."

"What do you want to do, kill them all? Enslave them? We were friends in the ancient times! Yes, there was meddling and manipulating and I don't even know what, but we lived together!"

"They turned on us first, Merlin."

"But we're supposed to be the wise and powerful ones! The ones who should know better! Are we going to hunt them like they hunt us now?"

"There is another way, yes," said Arthur urgently. "My father told me how hard it was to push the Anti-Magic Acts through the parliament. He had to make people see how much of a threat magic was, so they'd let him bend the laws on human rights, due process and civil freedoms. And in the end we let go of those ideals, yes, and we did what we did to you. But that's not the real us, that's not who we are. When we're not scared out of our wits, or blind with rage, we want to be just, and fair, and we want peace and prosperity for all. If both sides show willingness to stop the violence, forgive and work together, it will happen. Because in our hearts that's what we all want."

"Ah," said Cornelius. "There was something about this in Aulfric's message. Is this your great plan then, Merlin? Pin all our hopes on this boy? Wait till he comes into enough power to throw us some scraps off their table? Trust that he'll come through, that his own father will tolerate disobedience? Ridiculous. However, if your heart is set on this, I have a suggestion. I'll take him as a vessel. I'll have the enchantment lifted off the evidence against him, and I'll get into the inner circles of their Government in no time. Then I'll reshape this country to suit our needs, and the rest of the world will follow. The body of a Pendragon with my mind and magic in it – that can work. Once we've achieved our goals, I will release him. And I wouldn't even be opposed to you enjoying his body while I'm riding in it."

"I think I understand what you're suggesting, Cornelius," Arthur said, trying to sound reasonable, professional and not at all freaked out of his skull. "Leaving aside how creepy your idea is, I can do much better by myself than you could posing as me. I'm sure you're very competent in all things magic, but this is my field, politics is my life. I've been trained for this since birth."

"Oh, and h

ow long was that? Quarter of a century, less?" Cornelius laughed.

"Enough, we're not discussing this," said Merlin. "I won't let you touch Arthur."

Arthur wanted to remind him about that overprotective attitude: they'd been over this, he thought they'd come to an understanding. Besides, Merlin was pretty much useless in a fight right now, by his own admission. But he kept his mouth shut, hoping that Cornelius would buy their bluff and back off.

This meeting had definitely been a setup. Aulfric had given them to this man on a platter, weakened and cut off from any resources they had. The whole prison could've been in on this. Arthur wasn't that surprised, he never expected this to go smoothly. He just wished Merlin had let him sort out a better exit strategy than hoping that the two of them would be enough to take on one warlock.

"Oh, very well," Cornelius shrugged. "I only offered those alternatives for the sake of our kinship, Merlin. I'm not going to take Arthur. I do like him, yes. But I'd much rather have you."

He took a step back and hissed out a few words, waving his arm at the wall of the cathedral. Arthur lunged at him, hoping that a punch to the throat would cut off the spell before it did any damage. But before he could reach him, Cornelius staggered and crashed to his knees. He suddenly looked terrified, pained, confused – he stretched an arm toward Arthur pleadingly and tried to speak, but then another convulsion whipped through him, and he fell down, face first, twitching weakly.

"What - " Arthur started, "Did his spell backfire? What's this?"

Long tendrils of blue light were pouring out of the prone man's mouth, streaming low over the grass, towards Merlin's feet. Arthur experimentally toed at one and his foot went clear through, not even disturbing the flow.

"It's Cornelius," Merlin said. "I can fight him off, I just need to focus..."

An odd grinding noise came from the direction of the cathedral. Something stirred there in the dark, high on the wall, against the grey stones. At first Arthur thought it were birds perching on the gargoyles that adorned the pillars. But there were no birds there.

On the pillar closest to them three dark figures were moving, twisting against the stone, trying to wriggle free. The one shaped like a lion broke out first and sprinted down the vertical wall, its stone paws hammering out a fast rhythm in the quiet of the gardens.

"Arthur," said Merlin. "Run."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Run!"

The second figure from the pillar, a stout man about two feet tall, was running down the wall as well now, following the lion. The third one strained up and flapped its heavy stone wings, attempting to take flight.

Merlin was eyeing the gargoyles, shaking off his right hand like a pianist warming up for a performance. His left hand was hanging by his side, palm spread toward the ground where the blue light was coiled around him, circling him cautiously.

The lion pushed off the wall and jumped on the ground, gouging big chunks out of the beautifully tended lawn. Merlin shouted out a spell before Arthur could react; a flash of bright light shot out from his hand, and the stone man crashed off the wall, shattering on the concrete path beneath. Merlin moaned and staggered on his feet, clutching at his hand, his chest; the blue light sprang up from the ground, as if it'd been waiting for this moment, and clung to his legs, slithering higher.

"Don't, I've got this!" Arthur shouted. "Focus!"

The lion gargoyle was almost at them. Arthur waited till it leapt in the air, aiming at him, dark maw wide open, paws spread. It was not much bigger than a pitbull, but that was small comfort. When it was close enough, he landed a solid kick right on its rain-polished flat nose. It felt exactly like kicking a flying boulder – the pain of the impact shot up his leg, but the lion flew backwards, stunned for a moment, and clumsily flailed on the grass.

The winged gargoyle was airborne, flying heavily in awkward circles like a confused bumblebee. It was coming at him, completely ignoring Merlin, and finally Arthur understood. The gargoyles were just a diversion. Cornelius was incorporeal, Cornelius was the blue light - the man they spoke with had been his vessel, and now Cornelius was trying to make Merlin into one. He wouldn't want the gargoyles to mangle the body he was planning to use. The only purpose of them was to ruin his concentration, to split his focus, and it was working. The blue tendrils were crawling all over Merlin's body now. He did something to make them recede for a moment and tried another spell, aiming at the stone bird, but it didn't even seem to fire off. He grunted in pain and fell to his knees, and the tentacles tightened around him, coiling over his throat, probing at his face.

"Focus, you daft sod, fight!" yelled Arthur again. He should have run away when Merlin told him to, he realised that now. The beasts would have followed him, and he could have faced them around the corner, where Merlin wouldn't have to watch, wouldn't be distracted.

It was too late now. The broken stone midget had pulled itself up and was hopping forward on its only remaining leg; the lion was circling Arthur, snapping at his heels, dodging the kicks. The griffin swooped down for an attack, and Arthur managed to grasp its wing and slam it hard into the ground. The lawn was too soft, the statue didn't break; it lost a tip of one wing but quickly pushed off the ground with its stumpy feet and was flying again, climbing up.

The midget was getting close, shaking its little, crudely carved fists, its face, half-destroyed by age and weather, contorted in a grotesque mask of rage. It probably wasn't as much of a threat as the other two, but it was by far the creepiest, and Arthur didn't want it near. He grabbed it by the head and flung it towards the wall, hoping to damage it more.

The griffin dived for him again, and he dodged it. Merlin was flat on the grass now, his heels dug into the lawn, his whole body arched with tension. The blue tendrils were all over him, pulsing around his neck, swirling into his nostrils, into his ears. He raised his hand towards the gargoyles again and opened his mouth to cast a spell, and the light twisted up into a thick tentacle that plunged between his lips, forcing his jaws open, choking him.

It was unbearable to watch. Arthur lunged towards him – he had no idea how he could help, but he had to do something – and lost sight of the lion for just a moment.

It was faster than it had looked. When its maw clamped around Arthur's leg, the pain was unbelievable. He tried not to scream, but it felt like stone was grinding right against the bone, crushing skin and muscle into nothing. If the medieval sculptor had bothered to detail the teeth, his leg would be broken already, and the pressure just kept increasing. The beast hung on with all its weight; every attempt to shake it off only hurt more.

He could barely stand, he couldn't really move. The one-legged gnome was hopping toward him again, and the griffin was barrelling down at terrifying speed, wings spread wide, looking like a bomber plane in a WW2 movie. It was aiming to ram into his chest, and it was coming too fast to avoid cleanly – and then it smashed into the ground, brought down hard by a swing of a truncheon.

Just the sight of all the yellow and black of the familiar uniform was such a relief that Arthur almost forgot about the pain. The police were here, everything was going to be fine now, everything was finally under control. The cop wielded his weapon with perfect, practised grace of a martial artist: he swatted the man-gargoyle away, gave the griffin another hard blow before it could rise up again, then wedged the truncheon between the lion's jaws and levered them open, and Arthur was free.

He left the copper to defend them against the gargoyles – the man seemed more than competent – and rushed to Merlin's side.

Merlin's eyes were wide open, wild and completely black. The last of the glowing tentacles were worming into his mouth, curling between his listlessly parted lips. He was convulsing painfully at odd intervals – it looked as if someone invisible was kicking him in the stomach. Arthur grabbed his shoulders and pressed their foreheads together, willing his strength to somehow seep into Merlin, to help him.

"Fight," he pleaded.

For a few seconds he heard nothing except Merlin's wheezing breaths and the sounds of truncheon hitting stone, and then Merlin rolled his head back and let out a hoarse angry scream. The blue light exploded all around him like a ragged halo; it hung in the air, the tendrils torn up and limp, curling on themselves, and then it simply faded, and the gargoyles stilled and fell on the grass, dead stone once again.

"He's gone," Merlin said, pulling himself up with shaking arms to face the copper.

The man stopped prodding at the gargoyles and was turning toward Arthur and Merlin, truncheon in his left hand now, drawing a tazer with his right - and only then Arthur remembered that the police presence wasn't actually a good thing for them. Merlin was already lifting his hand, about to try something again, but Arthur grabbed his wrist and pushed it down. This copper had just saved their lives, he didn't deserve to be assaulted with magic. He looked up to meet the cop's eyes, trying to come up with some sort of compelling argument, plea or threat. He couldn't quite believe what he saw till the man's beautiful face went slack with surprise to match his own.

"Arthur?"

"Lancelot," Arthur said with a completely inappropriate happy giggle. "Well. Hello."

A sound of steps echoed from the far end of the gardens, and another yellow jacket flickered behind the trees. Without a moment's hesitation Lancelot grabbed Arthur's shoulder and shoved him toward the cathedral:

"Hide!"

Arthur picked Merlin up and half-dragged, half-carried him to the shadow behind a pillar. The pain in his leg flared again, but it was only a few steps; they huddled up together, pressed flat against the wall. The other cop saw Lancelot and waved his torch at him.

"All clear on that side!" he yelled. "Did you see anyone?"

The man on the ground, Cornelius's former vessel, suddenly stirred and grabbed Lancelot's ankle. Arthur jerked toward them, half on instinct, but Merlin caught him around the shoulders and pushed him further into the shadow. The man wasn't attacking Lancelot; he just tugged on his trouser leg and whined:

"Sergeant DuLac, sir, it wasn't my fault! You know your Cedric, I'm no sorcerer – he stole my body! He tricked me! He promised - "

The other cop jogged up to them and stopped, taking in the ruined lawn, the battered gargoyles and the sobbing man on the grass.

"Oh hullo, it's our Cedric," he said. "What are you up to now? What went on here?"

"I'm sure Cedric has an explanation," said Lancelot nonchalantly. "He always does."

Cedric slowly sat up, nodding.

"Well, you see," he said, after carefully clearing his throat. "There is this bloke, a loan shark. A nasty customer, whom I'd be more than happy to help bring to justice. He's been threatening me - and my poor old Mum! You remember my dear old Mum, Officer Patons, don't you? And he said he'd let me off if I bring him one of these beauties."

"Someone wanted to buy a bloody gargoyle?"

"It's a work of art, innit? Historical artefact! He's got a buyer, see, some Japanese tourist, you know how they are. He said it'd be a piece of piss to climb up and chisel one off. But, as you see," he mournfully spread his arms, indicating the disaster area around himself. "It all went horribly, horribly wrong."

"But we saw lights," said Patons. "There was screaming, and lights. Really looked like sorcery."

"Of course there was screaming, I fell off that height! Must've done my back in again," Cedric whimpered, feeling himself for imaginary injuries. "I had a flashlight, dropped it somewhere – but sorcery, no, no, you know your Cedric, Officer Patons, I'm no sorcerer!"

"Of course we know you, Cedric," said Lancelot soothingly. "We've nicked you about six times just this year. If you somehow turned out to be a sorcerer, we'd be a laughing stock. Who'd even believe that we really didn't know you had magic?"

"Yeah, of course," said Patons quickly. "That looked more like flashlight, yeah. Well, you've done it this time, Cedric. Defacing a historical building!"

"Maybe they can glue them back on," sighed Cedric, trying to fit bits of rubble back onto the broken wings of the griffin.

"Maybe," said Lancelot. "Let's make sure nobody pinches them after all. Dan, you go book him and call it in, I'll secure the scene."

After Patons performed the arrest and led Cedric off, Lancelot walked over to their hiding place and crouched in front of them.

"Arthur," he said. "What's going on? Are you in trouble? How can I help?"

That was Lancelot, through and through, just as Arthur remembered him, and once again he felt the same helpless admiration for this man. They barely knew each other, after all. He wasn't sure he could expect this level of trust from his closest friends.

Merlin was staring after Cedric and the cop, puzzled.

"He knew we were here," he said. "He could've given us up. Why did he just take all the blame? He really isn't a sorcerer, he was just possessed..."

"Cedric's smart," Lancelot said. "He'll weasel out of this, he always does. But if he told the truth, this would end up being a magical crime. You'd all end up investigated by the Commission, him included, and I guess you of all people would know what that's like. I'm Lancelot, by the way."

"Merlin," said Merlin cautiously, accepting the handshake. "Me of all - why?"

"I saw you. You actually are a sorcerer. I guess you're on the run and Arthur's helping you."

"No, he's helping me," Arthur said. "Haven't you heard? Even if I haven't made front page news, it must've been in the bulletin."

"I'd remember if your name popped up, Arthur. Whatever it is, I guess your father silenced it."

"Well, at least that's something... Look, Lancelot, I really am in trouble. Thank you for what you did, but I'm not going to involve you in this any further. We'll just go."

"Where? Just look at you. You're in no shape – you need a place to rest."

Merlin did look awful, even worse than yesterday when he passed out in that field. His face was filmed with sweat, lips pale and cracked, and the shadows around his eyes now looked like livid purple bruises, as if he'd just had his nose broken. His heartbeat hammered fast and wild even through layers of clothes, and it probably wasn't just the after-effects of all the excitement. But Arthur could look after him; he was fine himself, the only problem was his leg - he'd walk that off.

Lancelot took out his notepad and wrote down an address and some directions.

"Here," he ripped the page out and handed it to Arthur. "Go there right now, knock on the second window from the left. Speak only with Guinevere; tell her Lancelot sent you."

"We're not really going where a policeman sent us, are we?" Merlin asked after Arthur managed to drag them both out of the city centre.

Moving wasn't easy. His leg could barely take his own weight, and Merlin couldn't even stand unsupported, let alone walk. But they had to get off the streets. Merlin looked obviously ill, and the left leg of Arthur's jeans was soaked through with blood all the way down to his shoe. They'd get picked up by the police in a heartbeat, no matter how low a profile they tried to keep.

"I mean, we already walked into one trap today. Shouldn't we space it out a bit?"

"Look, Merlin, I went along with your plan, stupid as it was. Have I already said I told you so? Nevermind, it bears repeating. Now we're going with my plan. We can trust Lancelot. I'm more worried about getting him in trouble."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking."

"Ah. Is he your token working class friend then?"

"You can be such a bitch sometimes," said Arthur tiredly, shifting Merlin's arm over his shoulders to try to take more of his weight. Merlin kept tripping over his own feet and losing his balance; it would probably be easier to outright carry him. Secretly he was happy that Merlin still had the energy to prattle on, at least that meant he wasn't about to faint again. "All right, we met once, ages ago. He was receiving the Queen's Medal, the man's a bloody hero, I'll tell you the story, it'll make you weep, I promise. There were all the ceremonies, and then a big do, and I showed him a bit of the city in the afternoon. We got along, but didn't stay in touch. I don't know what your definition of a friend is, but what he did for us today – not every friend would go that far."

"You slept with him, didn't you."

"What? Why would you just assume that?"

"You did, didn't you?"

"Well, okay, yes. But still, why would you just assume that?"

Lancelot had been the only real one-night-stand in Arthur's sexual history. The whole concept of one-night-stands was something he never quite got the hang of. Having sex meant entering into a relationship, that was always the default unspoken intention, as far as he was concerned. The only reason to break things off after one encounter would be because it had been a mistake to hook up with that person in the first place. And that wasn't likely to ever happen to him. He didn't make such decisions lightly.

When he pressed Lancelot against the oak panelling in that empty drawing room and kissed the man's lush, soft lips, it hadn't really been a decision. It just happened, like it couldn't be prevented from happening if he tried. It was a pull like gravity, a warm, soft undertow, and he felt into it, gladly and eagerly, not thinking a single step ahead. It happened a bit like that with Merlin, too: he felt the same giddy fatalism take over him, ever though he knew it was ill-advised, potentially dangerous, no good reason to do it, except that the man in front of him was beautiful, inside and out, and Arthur had to have him.

They had talked a lot during that day, on and off, between Lancelot's interviews and endless photo ops, and were both surprised to find how much they had in common even though their lives were worlds apart. Somehow, through completely different paths, they both had managed to arrive at exactly the same brand of political idealism, the kind that went out of fashion before either of them was born. Arthur hadn't really talked about this to anyone. Most people he knew considered that attitude career suicide, and those who didn't tended toward infantile anti-establishmentarianism, mostly of the "break stuff" variety. Lancelot was different. Everything about Lancelot was fiercely real, good and true.

The media went quite a bit more nuts than usual – normally to put a gorgeous face on the front page they had to run some sleazy celebrity scandal story. Now they had a real life hero with movie star looks; they just couldn't let up. Even at the after-after-dinner party, which was supposed to be private and invitation only, there was quite a bunch of them, vying for the exclusives. Lancelot held up commendably through the whole day, but it was getting to him, Arthur could see. As soon as he could he stole Lancelot away under some shoddy pretext, just to give the man a moment's respite.

"Thank you," Lancelot said as they hid in the first empty room they could find. "This is harder than I thought it would be. I feel like a fraud; I haven't actually done anything that's not in the job description."

"Don't be ridiculous. What you did was the definition of above and beyond the call of duty. Look, I know it all feels shallow and fake, but it's important. People want to celebrate bravery, they need to be inspired."

"Yes, this is great for the Department, and I'm doing my best," he nodded, leaning tiredly against the closed door. "But I'm not brave, Arthur. I did a very cowardly thing not so long ago. I could have helped someone, and I didn't. I have a lot to prove to myself now."

"You can't live your whole life constantly trying to prove yourself," Arthur said. Those weren't his words; that's what Morgana used to tell him in his darker moments. "Well, that's just a piece of advice somebody gave me. Not that I've really managed to follow it yet. But you know, you can't save everyone."

"I have to try. That's what the job is all about. You know how it is - if it's not a crusade, it's nothing."

"Oh God," Arthur moaned, and couldn't help laughing. "It's been a long time since it was acceptable to say those words around here."

"Well, I can't change the way things are done here. You probably can."

"That's the general plan, yes," Arthur admitted. "Eventually. Maybe we'll end up working together. I'll need – this country needs men like you."

Lancelot gave him a warm smile, brilliantly dazzling on his tanned face, and Arthur was leaning in to kiss him before he even realised what he was doing.

He tried to keep the kiss light and gentle, a question more than anything. Lancelot flinched against him, but immediately kissed back, skilfully and thoroughly, and Arthur pushed closer, exhilarated, chasing the tang of champagne on Lancelot's tongue.

"Arthur," Lancelot said, softly breaking the kiss. "Arthur, I'm straight."

Arthur grinned sceptically and lightly brushed his hand against the front of Lancelot's trousers, thankful that cheap rented clothes were so rubbish at concealing erections. Lancelot laughed and awkwardly twisted his hips, as if he tried to pull away but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Well, yes," he said. "We're both tipsy, and you're an extremely attractive person, and - yes. But it's just a moment."

Arthur shrugged, kissed him again, and slid down to kneel on faded antique carpet. Lancelot still seemed uncertain, but didn't stop him as Arthur opened his flies and pulled his hard, honey-golden cock out. He licked through the scent of hotel soap to his real smell underneath, the warmth and the musk and the bitter slickness of the precome. It'd been too long, he'd missed this: a beautiful cock thick in his mouth, heavy and hard on his tongue; when he glanced up, Lancelot's dark eyes were full of heat and unguarded affection. Lust laced through him, making his thighs shudder, and he fumbled his cock out one-handed, wanked himself shakily and too fast, swallowing around his mouthful, again and again, working the flat of his tongue over the delicate ridges on the underside, relishing the taste and the smell and the burn in his stretched jaw.

He had just about enough presence of mind to pull back and catch Lancelot's come in a handkerchief. This was only a moment, and it was best to keep it clean, neat and casual. Lancelot knelt down beside him and curled his hand over Arthur's friction-hot cock, unerringly, without hesitation, and kissed him all the way through it, till the last of the aftershocks.

And that was it. They straightened up and rejoined the party, and only exchanged a smile and a nod when Uther called it a night and Arthur left with him, and there'd been nothing more than that.

"Unbelievable," said Merlin in a wounded tone.

"You know what's unbelievable? You giving me grief for what happened before we met."

"No, come on, we've been on the outside for two days, and basically the first person we bump into turns out to be your ex! You don't even live in this county! Is that how it's going to be? Are we going to trip over your past conquests wherever we go?"

"What the hell, are you seriously saying this to me? I have only two words for you, Merlin: fertility festivals. For all I know, you fucked half that prison!"

"Not even close to half!"

"And – don't tell me if I'm right about this, because I'd really, really rather not know – but, let's just say, at least my ex is a gorgeous hero and not a deranged scar-faced murderer!"

They glared at each other angrily, which wasn't easy with their sides pressed flush together and Merlin more or less draped across Arthur's shoulders. Merlin sustained the indignant expression for a few more steps and stumbled again, nearly tripping them both.

"Let's stop," he said. "I need to rest. Just a bit, and I'll be fine."

Arthur needed to rest too, not that he was going to admit it. The pain pulsed in his leg, hot and exhausting, and shot upwards on every step. He could feel his shin swelling hideously; the bone was definitely fractured.

"We're almost there," he said, reassuringly squeezing Merlin's bony elbow. "Quit whining."

It felt like it took hours, but they made it. Arthur double-checked the address and tapped on the window as instructed. Almost immediately a pretty female face popped up over the windowsill, sleep-soft, framed adorably by a sea of mussed black curls.

"Guys, guys," she whispered, pushing the window open and stifling a yawn. "You know you're not supposed to do this. If you know this address, then you know the rules. You have to be referred by the council and you have to go on the waiting list, you can't just show up. I don't have any free beds, and no, I can't let you sleep on the floor, it's against Health and Safety."

"Wait," Arthur interrupted. "What's this place? Is this... a homeless shelter?"

She stared at him warily, blinking away the last of the sleep. Arthur only just realised he was dripping with sweat everywhere, his scalp itching with it; his hair had to be a complete disaster. Merlin clung to his side, wobbly on his feet, looking like a malnourished, sad panda. Most likely they appeared to be on drugs, and not in a fun way.

"Do you need an ambulance?" she asked softly. "I'll call, hang on."

"Please, wait - we're looking for Guinevere," Arthur said. He wasn't quite sure why the girl wasn't calling the police yet. Even if she was used to suspicious homeless men knocking on the windows in the middle of the night - well, especially in that case, really.

"That's me."

"Lancelot sent us here."

She gave a short nod, her face hardening with resolve, and pointed toward the corner of the building:

"Go round the back. We'll talk there."

She met them in the back garden, on the steps leading to the basement level.

"Show me," she demanded.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"If you were sent by Lancelot, you know what I need to see."

"I think I do," said Merlin, who'd kept uncharacteristically and pleasantly quiet so far. "Here."

He stretched out his hand and whispered a single word, and the next moment there was a small purple flower resting in his palm.

"I've heard about you. It's so great to finally meet you," He bowed his head, clutching harder at Arthur's arm for balance, and offered the flower to the girl. "You're a bit of a legend in the Facility. Mike keeps talking about you, don't know if you'd remember him - well, he never told us your name, or where you were, just to be on a safe side, but he's really grateful for what you did."

"So he's in the Facility," she said sadly, twisting the magical flower in her fingers. It bruised and shed petals just like any normal flower would. "Obviously I didn't do enough."

"Yes, he got caught, but he's fine. You don't know how much it means, when you're all alone like that, to have someone willing to help you. He'd pretty much given up before. You saved his life."

She smiled awkwardly, uncomfortable with the praise.

"I have a cot in the basement," she said. "Couldn't be more against Health and Safety, but you look like you need it."

The damp-smelling room hosted a labyrinth of stacked-up boxes, most full of shabby donated clothes or buy-in-bulk cleaning products. Merlin squeaked joyfully and made straight for the camp bed by the far wall.

"I have a sleeping bag here, if you don't mind the floor," Guinevere said. "And I want to look at your leg – let me go grab the first aid kit."

"No, I'm fine, I just need to clean up. Is there any chance of taking a shower?"

"He's like a cat," mumbled Merlin into the pillow. "Always needs to clean himself."

Guinevere dug some clothes out of the boxes and snuck him into the main building, to the tiny downstairs shower room. The light inside was eerily blue, and he didn't even want to know what that was for; it could be making the wounds on his shin look worse than they were. He rinsed the damaged area with hot water, gritting his teeth against the sting, quickly washed, and had started sweating again before he finished putting on worn donated clothes. He had a fever. Possibly infection or internal bleeding. He also had no leads left, nowhere to go, no idea what to do next. He still didn't know if Merlin was going to get better on his own, or how to help him if he didn't. But at least they had shelter for the night.

When he got back to the basement, Guinevere was laying out a first aid kit on one of the boxes, and Merlin was sprawled on the bed, fast asleep. Arthur limped over to him and checked his pulse, just in case.

"Right," he said, satisfied. "Guinevere, could you explain something to me?"

"Call me Gwen."

"Gwen. So. You and Lancelot knowingly shelter warlocks. On a regular basis, apparently. Even fugitives from the Facility, which Merlin practically admitted we were. Do you understand the danger you're putting yourself in? Are you both completely insane? You could lose everything - your careers, your whole lives would be ruined! You could go to prison!"

She crossed her arms on her chest, over the logo of the charity on her uniform t-shirt, and stubbornly lifted her chin.

"This is our choice," she said. "The people we help don't have a choice. I have forty six men and women sleeping upstairs. They'd love to be in my position, to have this much to lose. The warlocks can't even have what the homeless have, not even a bed in a shelter..."

"You need to be more careful, at least! You checked that Merlin was a warlock before you exposed yourself as a sympathiser, that was good, but you didn't ask me to do any magic. I could be a Government agent, and Lancelot could already have been arrested, and you would be soon, too!"

"Merlin obviously trusted you."

"So? For all you know he's an idiot and I'm - "

"I know who you are, Arthur Pendragon. Merlin's already told me the whole story."

He stuttered, deflated, surprised how jealous he was just thinking of the two of them bonding in his absence.

"And you don't - I mean, my father... You know his stance on..."

"I've heard about you before, actually," she said with an oddly shy smile. "If Lancelot thinks we can trust you, that's good enough for me. He thinks very highly of you, you know. As a person, I mean, not because of what you – oh, I'm not saying he didn't like the sex, because he did – not that he ever told me the, the details - I'll shut up now."

"Well," he said bravely. If he was blushing, it was the fever. "It's nice that the two of you don't have secrets. Lancelot is very lucky to have you. And he deserves to be happy, he's a great guy."

"Oh, we're not a couple," she said, fidgeting with a roll of bandages. "Just friends. He's... he's not my type."

"Yes, I know what you mean. Gorgeous, noble, a decorated hero, great kisser – how would he ever manage to pull, poor thing."

She laughed and nodded:

"Well, all right, he's... incredible, yes. But I can't, it wouldn't work. His job – he's in the right place to help a lot of people, but it makes him so exposed. I want him to be able to walk away from this if things get dangerous. And I think if we were together he wouldn't do that. He has these ridiculous notions of chivalry... Well, you know him."

"Gwen," he said, struggling for words. "Gwen, you're..."

"Completely insane, check."

"No. No, I'm sorry I said all that. It's just, if anything happens to you and Lancelot, I wouldn't be able to help you. If you get arrested - even thinking about you or him going through all that, it's... it's too much, I can't... "

She put her hand on his, soothingly. He could feel small calluses on her palm, the warmth of her body; he looked into her dark eyes and felt quieted somehow, safe, accepted and understood on some new, different level.

"Yes, I know what it's like," she said. "This is exactly why I do what I do."

And he nodded and kissed her.

For an endless, blindingly bright moment he was lost in the feel of her lips, the sweetness of her breath, the soft, dizzying scent of her skin. When he pulled back she rocked forward, straining toward him, and stopped abruptly, blinking, looking just as confused as he felt.

"I... don't know why I did that," he said.

"I know why," chirped Merlin helpfully.

He was awake, lounging on the bed with his head propped on one arm. Dark ends of his hair curled over the pale skin on the inside of his wrist, and the contrast was at once startling and delicate. Looking at his wide, wide grin full of teeth and mischief, Arthur had a freaky moment of three completely separate trains of thought occurring at once, laid out in his head neatly, in spreadsheet fashion:

"1. My boyfriend is so hot, even though he urgently needs a haircut."  
"2. Merlin is going to turn me into a cockroach."  
"3. Hey, I am bi!"

"Arthur has a bit of a hero fetish," explained Merlin. "He just can't help himself. First time he kissed me was exactly like this: right after he found out I'd saved some people."

"Oh - oh, god, I'm so sorry," Gwen gasped, biting her lips. "Merlin, I... "

"It's okay, I'm getting used to this! No, Gwen, don't - it's okay, really."

He caught her hand and shook it gently, up and down, in an childishly earnest gesture, till she smiled.

"I'd better go," she said. "I guess you won't be needing that sleeping bag."

She left, and Merlin was still grinning, and Arthur still couldn't tell if that wasn't a bloodthirsty grin of a warlock bent on vengeance. Mostly because Merlin probably couldn't help looking ridiculously cute even when bloodthirsty.

"So," Merlin said finally. "I guess you found the right woman."

"I guess," Arthur agreed. "If she wasn't so clearly into Lancelot, and if she was actually interested, and if I were single, I'd be really excited about it right now. So, how mad are you exactly?"

"Eh," Merlin waved dismissively. "I reckon if I get mad every time you do or say something prattish, I'd never have time for anything else."

Arthur sat on the cot next to him, unsure if he should feel insulted or relieved. For a moment the pleasure of finally resting his injured leg was enough to forget about the pain, but it didn't last.

"She's really nice," Merlin said wistfully. "I've never kissed a girl, you know. That was kind of... vicariously fun to watch."

"You like girls?"

"I don't know. I mean, theoretically, sure. I'd just never – I couldn't date someone I'd have to lie to, it was too risky. Plus, also, rather skanky. And later, in the Facility, options were obviously limited."

"Fuck, Merlin. Don't tell me you lost your virginity in prison."

"Yeah, cell 14F, good times. And that was it, one boyfriend, one breakup, a few orgies, and - you. That's my whole story."

His smile was angelically innocent, soft and trusting. Maybe it wasn't cruelly calculated to make Arthur feel like an utter bastard, but it was working nevertheless.

"Merlin," said Arthur miserably. "I've never cheated on anyone. I don't cheat on people. That's not me."

"Oh, whatever," Merlin wrapped an arm around his chest in a comforting half-hug. "Lie down, turboslut."

Arthur settled down on the creaky cot. Merlin easily tucked himself to his side, fitting them together in the narrow space.

"You look better," Arthur said. Merlin's skin had lost its pallor after that short sleep, and was now his usual healthy, glowing pale, with a soft flush over his perfect cheekbones. "I hope you're feeling better, because I'm seriously sick of dragging you around."

"I feel good. Told you, I just needed a little rest. When I pushed Cornelius out, something... aligned. I think when I killed him I kept some of his power."

"Ew, gross. It's like you ate him," Arthur commented, poking at Merlin's flat stomach where his shirts rode up. Merlin responded with a dark chuckle.

"So yeah, not wanting to try anything epic like standing up, but I'm ready to work some magic." Merlin casually grabbed the waistband of Arthur's borrowed track suit bottoms and pulled them off, swiftly and businesslike, leaving him lying there half-naked.

"You said next time I could use magic on you. Can I?" he asked, running his palm down Arthur's thigh.

"Yes, go on then, if you're up for it," said Arthur easily, arching into the touch. He wanted Merlin, even tired as he was, even through the haze of pain and fever. He wanted to be claimed again, to feel in his skin and flesh that they were still together, even after all the magic, blood, and sexual revelations of this day. "But, wait. First help me wrap my leg up, and I wouldn't say no to a paracetamol or something, and I can't really promise a stellar performance..."

Merlin rolled his eyes and petted Arthur's soft cock. It twitched into his palm, valiantly trying to get interested.

"Calm down, the magic is for your leg."

"Hang on, hang on, remember how you're not very good at healing?"

"It'd different now. I know your body. I can feel how it works," Merlin shifted on the bed and pressed a light kiss to Arthur's knee, above the mess of bruises and grotesque swelling. His palm slid down, not quite touching the torn skin; for a second it started stinging again, and then the pain faded into intense, deep heat. It still felt weird - his muscles were twitching, as if zapped with tiny electric jolts, and something was pulling and pinching his abused skin. Merlin trailed small kisses over the underside of his knee, his inner thigh, whispered strange words into his flesh, and Arthur concentrated on that distraction, trying not to worry, not to doubt or question what Merlin was doing.

For all his talk about peace and the human rights of warlocks, actually having magic twist and crawl under his skin felt wrong, shameful and dangerous. It was something his mind recoiled from on pure xenophobic instinct, inexplicable and unshakable like a childhood fear of the dark. Yet, at the same time, having Merlin fuss over him like this - attentive and gentle, near enough worshipful - wasn't bad at all. That part felt wonderfully right.

When Merlin suddenly pressed his hand right onto the worst part of the injured area, Arthur jumped on the bed, bracing for pain, but there was only a dull warm ache. Where the wounds had been there was now new skin, oddly pink, hairless and shiny, and the swelling had gone down.

"Impressive," he conceded, and Merlin's face lit up in that pretty, sweet wide grin, Arthur's favourite.

"When I get to the bone, it will probably hurt," Merlin said, rubbing soothing circles from his ankle to the kneecap. "Do you want to sleep through it? I can do that."

"I'm sure I'll survive," huffed Arthur. He didn't want to miss any of it, even the gross and painful parts; he wanted to see how it all worked.

"All right. You just relax and I'll go slow and try to be gentle."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," joked Arthur lamely, trying not to tense up as the magic returned and pushed deeper, slid hot and prickly between his muscles, to the very core of him. Merlin glanced at him - golden sparkles dancing in his eyes, small filthy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his fingers curling possessively over Arthur's thigh - and didn't say anything, just ducked his head and went back to work.


	13. Road Trip

By mid-morning Arthur had decided that, all things considered, he would rather be Merlin's prison bitch than Gwen's charity case.

She was perfectly lovely about the whole thing, very professional. Not a hint of condescension, nothing self-congratulatory or even self-conscious about her. He'd seen spouses of Uther's colleagues perform PR stunts in shelters and prisons, and he understood completely why some of the homeless would rather sleep rough than accept that brand of charity.

Gwen was nothing like that, and she did all the right things to make him feel at ease. She did this every day, after all, for a living. The city paid her to take care of its dregs: the homeless, addicts, headcases, ex-convicts. And now Arthur was one of them. That was all he was here, just one more human disaster for her to clean up and keep afloat. It was probably different for most of her regular customers, but for him it had been a lot easier to deal with hostility than with pity.

While they slept she washed their clothes and ran them through the dryer. Arthur had been looking forward to fresh clothes for over a week, and now he could feel neither pleasure nor relief. The detergent she used made his skin itch, and the fabric felt coarse and cheap after a rough cycle without a softener. But he thanked her, wholeheartedly. He knew he ought to be grateful.

The shelter had cleared out by now. The homeless were a busy lot: Big Issue to peddle, drugs to acquire. Gwen was supposed to have gone home. Instead she and Lancelot sat on the boxes in the basement and watched Arthur eat, the way they would've watched a stray kitten they'd rescued. It was unbearably embarrassing, but he couldn't stop eating anyway. Breakfast was scrambled eggs and bacon, and it was delicious. He polished it all off and moved onto Merlin's leftovers, trying not to blush. Merlin had barely touched his food. They had to talk about healthy diets at some point.

"I'll go and make you some more," Lancelot said, and Arthur shook his head vehemently and finally managed to put the fork down.

"No, thank you. That was lovely. Next time it's my treat, I insist. I'd love to take you both out to dinner in Mayfair, whenever you can find the time. Obviously, after I'm cleared of the charges against me."

Lance and Gwen gave him creepily identical polite smiles. Arthur knew that dinner in Mayfair right now was about as likely as dinner on Mars, but they didn't have to humour him so obviously.

"We should be moving on," he said. "Thank you, again, for everything you've done. Just – please be careful, all right?"

"I thought you didn't actually know what to do next," Gwen said. "If you wait a little while, we might be able to help you."

"Gwen, no offence," he said. "But you're a junior social worker from the North. I really don't see how you could possibly help me with my problem. Unless you guys run an underground railway for warlocks in your spare time..."

They demurely smiled again. Even Merlin joined in this time.

"You do not," said Arthur, sick with helpless terror. "Oh fuck, you do not. Tell me you're not that insane. Tell me you're not that deep into all this. If you're ever caught – I don't even know what the list of charges would be. You'll never get out of prison. Ever. You'll both fucking die in prison, do you understand that?"

"Yes," Gwen said and nonchalantly checked messages on her phone. "We've been doing it for a long time. What did you actually think we give those people, a bed for a night and a pat on the back? I'm trying to get you into a safehouse right now."

"Merlin would be safe there, but they probably won't take you, Arthur," said Lancelot. "We hope that they will, but... If they refuse, I'll get you out of the country."

"I don't want to run. I want to fight, I need to clear my name," Arthur said, already feeling the words lose their meaning from being repeated too many times. "Bloody hell, I just want you to stay out of trouble. I can't dig you in any deeper. I've been interrogated before, and... I don't want to know any more dirt on either of you."

"Please, just wait till we get an answer," Lancelot asked softly. Arthur glanced at Merlin, who shrugged and muttered:

"It's not like we've got anywhere else to be."

The wait was torturous. He didn't want to talk about the details of what was to come – if he was refused access to the safehouse, it really would be better for everyone if he ended up knowing as little about that whole business as possible. That meant he couldn't even plan ahead.

Merlin was quiet, probably still feeling ill. He curled up at the foot of the camp bed and was brazenly manufacturing fake money, changing single fivers from Lancelot's wallet into stacks of twenties.

"Randomise the serial numbers," Arthur advised and only got an exasperated eye-roll in return.

Arthur would like to have caught up with Lancelot, but with Gwen and Merlin here the conversation could only be superfluous small talk. He wasn't sure how to talk to Gwen in front of Lancelot either, because he had no idea where they all stood regarding that freak accident of a kiss yesterday, and didn't want to ask.

Instead he asked them how they got involved in all of this. They exchanged a quick glance, and Lancelot spoke first.

"Do you remember I told you I'd done a very cowardly thing?"

"Right, so now you're overcompensating by being suicidally reckless."

"No, I'm making amends," said Lancelot grimly. "There was a girl, just a teenager. She was very dangerous, completely out of control. When we arrested her she told us she grew up with the druids. Few months before the Stonehenge riot the tribes started moving and converging. They were trying to shift parts of the Peak District into an alternate dimension, to use it as a temporary sanctuary. They called it going into the mist. She didn't know if they'd succeeded..."

"They did," said Merlin sadly. "I've been there. They should have stayed hidden, really."

"Yes. Well, Freya said that once all that started they couldn't spare resources to manage her condition, so they threw her out. I wanted to help her. I could have – but she really was dangerous, and I had no idea how I could keep her safe. I didn't know what to do. I suppose it was easier to tell myself my superiors knew better, let the Commission handle it. But after I saw what they did to her... And it's the standard containment procedure. Nothing like that should be standard. Never."

"It all worked out in the end, she's fine now," said Gwen, squeezing Lancelot's hand. He smiled at her gratefully. His fingers slid up her palm, to the inside of her wrist, and flinched away.

They would make a beautiful couple. There was a time when Arthur would have been envious, back when he wanted to find the right woman, introduce her to his father, have a long, slow, very public courtship, and then a lavish church wedding. Then they'd have children of their own, Pendragon flesh and blood, and Uther would've been happy and proud. It would all be so... uncomplicated.

That wasn't for him, he knew that now, but it should have been like that for Gwen and Lance. They should be going on dates, thinking about marriage and babies. Not wondering which of them would be arrested first and how long the sentence would be. The Anti-Magic Acts were supposed to give the government power to protect the country from terrorists and madmen, not punish people whose only crime was kindness.

"And then I met Gwen," said Lancelot. His voice deepened huskily on Gwen's name – it was endearing, really, how obvious they both were.

"He arrested me, actually," laughed Gwen. "Well, almost, or I wouldn't be here, of course. Since I started here, I've had a lot of runaway kids with magic looking for a safe place to stay. At first I wasn't sure if I was right to break the law. I believe that if people need help they should get it, that's what my job is all about. But we were always told that magic corrupts, and I kept worrying that if I didn't turn them in they might hurt someone. But then, my father... he used to make experimental equipment for researchers. He got this small contract on the side, cash in hand, and he thought it was just small time tax fraud. But those devices were for magical spells. Those people were terrorists."

"We call them freedom fighters," said Arthur poisonously, even though Merlin already looked utterly miserable.

"I'm so sorry, Gwen," Merlin sighed. "I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said with a forced smile. "You were probably twelve when it happened, you had nothing to do with it. I was only sixteen myself, but I knew, right then, that the law was wrong. My father should have had a proper investigation and a fair trial."

"Is he still in prison?" Arthur asked. Maybe, if he made it back home, he could convince Uther to pull some strings and set that right.

"He died in custody. They never told me what happened. Maybe he tried to escape, or maybe... There are rumours that they use torture. I guess I'll never know."

"Gwen," Arthur mumbled, not sure what to say. No words could make him feel better, he knew. "But that should have made you hate magic."

"Magic is just magic," she said with a shrug. "There are good, innocent people on both sides, and they're the ones who get hurt the most. The Government won't stop this war, not the way they're going about it. I mean, I'm not saying we will, obviously, I'm not crazy, I just..."

Her phone beeped, saving her from an awkward stammering moment.

"All right, this is a bit odd," she said, scrolling through the text with a frown. "They want you both to come to the headquarters. Well, it is the main safehouse, but normally we filter people through the network, it takes weeks..."

"Probably a set up again," sighed Merlin. "It really sucks how both sides hate us now."

"No, this is from my friend, I trust her. She says that she knows who framed Arthur. She wants to help you."

"What's her name?" Arthur asked, trying to ignore the painful twist in his chest and focus on the facts. There were thousands of sorceresses in the country, he had no reason to think...

"I can't tell you, sorry. This isn't just about my safety, Arthur, with this too much is at stake. We need to follow our procedure. A contact will be waiting for you at the meeting spot, every day at sunset for two weeks, starting today. She'll check that you weren't followed and then she'll approach and talk to you. If she decides you're okay she'll take you to the others."

Before they left, Lancelot pulled Arthur to the corner of the basement and asked:

"Something happened in the Facility, didn't it?"

"A lot of things happened," Arthur said and glanced over at Gwen. She was chatting to Merlin about some guy she'd helped before, and he didn't think she'd eavesdrop, but he still didn't want to discuss it in the same room as her. He'd hate for her to hear any of this.

He didn't even want to talk to Lancelot about it. He was fine as long as he kept his mind on other things, but sometimes he slipped up, and suddenly he'd be back there, inside the memory that seemed more vivid than reality. He'd feel naked again, and remember all those hands holding him down, and for one moment he'd be irrationally convinced that there was still blood on the seat of his jeans, leaking out of his body. Then the mere thought of blood dropped him right into the worst memory, and he'd see red on the grimy tiles, and almost feel Val's skull cracking under his hands.

This had to pass soon, he was sure of it. He had to believe it would all pass.

"I can only tell, because... Arthur, the way you look now – I looked like that after I killed that gunman."

"You saved a lot of lives that day," Arthur said. "Lance, you charged a crazy armed guy with just your truncheon. You're a hero. It was the right call."

"I know. Doesn't make it better, though, does it? But, if there's one piece of advice I can give you, it's this. Don't try to force it out of your mind. It will only go deeper."

Arthur nodded, breathing evenly, trying to relax and not to let his hands shake. Lance pulled him into an awkward one-armed half-hug and whispered:

"We're still human. We can still love. We can do great things, and help a lot of people. Just hold on to that."

Arthur thought of his words as he and Merlin walked out of the city to the edges of the suburbs, past a few busy tennis courts, towards the fields. They were platitudes, of course, as was all such advice, but they did make sense. He was still able to love, that was true. And he had Merlin by his side, fearlessly trotting along into a possible set up, into another confrontation with his own people. He was going to be all right.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked belatedly. He was so focused on not over-thinking what the identity of Gwen's mysterious friend might be that he hadn't memorised the actual practicalities of the trip.

"It's in Wales. Don't worry, I have a map."

"In Wales? That's the other side of the country! That's back the way we came - I'm not taking a bus to bloody Wales!"

"No bus," agreed Merlin and took his hand. "Something much better, you'll love it. Just keep walking for a bit."

Arthur shifted the hold so he could lace their fingers together and rest the pad of his thumb on the soft skin over Merlin's pulse point. They walked on, their strides easily matching; Arthur was looking around for that surprise transport Merlin had waiting for them, and almost didn't notice when the scenery changed.

The city was gone, wasn't even on the horizon. They were walking across a field, their feet sinking to their ankles in freshly-cut drying hay. There was a tiny village clinging to the railway tracks on their left, and beyond the fields there were only forest-covered hills.

Merlin was grinning, clearly enjoying Arthur's gob-smacked expression.

"That was about a thirty mile jump," he said. "I think I can do more."

"Wait. We couldn't have teleported. I know you need twelve chanting warlocks and a drawing on the ground to teleport."

"No, they needed that to teleport me when I was unconscious. I can just - do it. It used to happen on its own, when I'd be walking and drift off a bit, but now I can control it."

"Are you sure you're not going to land us into a wall? Or in the middle of a motorway?"

"Just trust me," said Merlin with a beautiful, wide smile, and Arthur couldn't resist kissing him. He slipped his left hand under Merlin's girly scarf to stroke the tender skin at the base of his neck, and then Merlin was kissing him back, hard, with the same near painful intensity, as if he expected each kiss to be their last one. They were still holding hands, and now their palms started sweating together, but that, Arthur felt, was okay. They were boyfriends, it was all good.

"We better keep going," mumbled Merlin after a while, brushing his lips over the stubble on Arthur's jaw. "If I push it a bit, we'll make it there tonight in time for the meeting."

He pulled back and carried on walking, tugging Arthur along by the hand.

They'd walk a few minutes, and then the world would shift again, without warning, easily, like a scene cut in a movie, and they would be on a country road, or a path by a riverbank, or wading through tall grass on a hilltop. Sometimes they'd land close to a village, or at the edge of a town, between warehouses or at an empty building site. Then they'd walk further, getting away from possible witnesses before using magic again. Sometimes Merlin would have to look at the map to adjust their direction. But mostly he just walked on, barely answering whenever Arthur tried to make small talk, focusing on the destination.

It took them two jumps to clear Birmingham. On the second one they ended up in somebody's back yard, standing on the lawn between the fence and glass walls of a conservatory. They both froze where they'd nearly trodden on scattered children's toys, and peered inside the house. Nobody seemed to be at home. Merlin took a deep breath and they blinked out of there, right onto a cattle bridge over a motorway.

"You should rest," Arthur said, dodging a particularly smelly sheep. "It's lunch break time."

They walked into the nearest village, settled in the beer garden of the only pub and ordered some standard pub grub from a laminated menu. Merlin still hadn't regained his appetite; he had some stew and was now indifferently poking his fork at the mashed potatoes.

"Eat your vegetables," Arthur reminded and rubbed his ankle against Merlin's under the table, and watched him grin into his plate.

The waitress came back with an extra bowl of chips and smiled at them bashfully.

"On the house," she said. "You boys are so cute. We have free rooms, by the way, if you're stopping over."

"Hey, why don't we?" Arthur asked after she left. "We don't have to be there tonight, we have two weeks. Let's spend the night."

"Let's just get where we're going and get it over with," said Merlin dully.

"Come on, I've barely had you to myself since we met. Don't you want to?"

"I really do," Merlin sighed. "It's pretty much all I want right now: to get you in a room with a bed and just... stay there. Just be with you. But I can't do that. I need to get you home."

"And we will. It will just be one day later. Well, several mind-blowing shags later."

"And do you think it would be easier for me to say good-bye after that? I'd be thinking that tomorrow you might be going home, and I'd have to go back to Cheshire, and..."

Arthur caught his hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Merlin," he said. "Listen to me. It's not going to be good-bye. I meant everything I said."

"I know you did. And I believe you will do it. You'll help my people, and you'll be smart about it. You'll make a great career out of it. You might be Prime Minister one day. But, us? That's never going to work. I'm a convicted warlock. Your father hates me. I'm... I've not even finished college. I know how this story ends, Arthur. You need someone who can stand next to you in all the press photos, and it can't be me. All we can have is a shag in a B'n'B, and I just..."

"Oh hell, shut up! So you've been to prison, so what? Do you know how many A-listers have been to prison?"

"Yeah, for drunk driving..."

"Ever heard of a guy who'd spent twenty seven years in prison and went on to be a President?"

"Yes, but that's - "

"And my father, well, I'm done with being scared of disappointing him. I was done with it years ago. Actually, after the last time I told him I wanted to marry someone - let's just say, he'll definitely agree that dating you is a much better choice."

"You wanted to marry someone?" asked Merlin, his face falling tragically, as if he'd thought that he was Arthur's first love. He looked so young and cute, like a lost baby deer. Arthur kept forgetting that despite everything Merlin had seen and done in his short life he didn't really have much of a clue about how the real world worked.

"Not really," he said soothingly. "It was just - it was nothing. Why are we talking about marriage, anyway? It's only been ten days since we met, it's far too early to discuss that."

"Has it really been just ten days? Feels so much longer," said Merlin, stroking his fingers over Arthur's palm.

"I know what you mean," Arthur nodded. He felt like it'd been years since he'd been home, which was normal in a stressful situation, but that wasn't what they were talking about. This thing with Merlin didn't feel new, even at the start. It felt comfortable and solid, as if it had already been tested by time; it seemed odd to him that Merlin had doubts about them. Arthur had thought they'd both considered themselves in a serious relationship since their first kiss.

"Let's go," Merlin said and pulled him to his feet. "While we have a lead, we should pursue it. If this blows up like our meeting with Cornelius, we'll have plenty of time to shag while we figure out our next move."

They made it to the meeting point with plenty of time to spare. It turned out to be a tiny railway station on the outskirts of a small town, just a platform, a rain shelter and a bench. It was completely empty; according to the hand-written schedule on the wall, the next train wouldn't come for forty minutes. Arthur tried reading the name of the station a few times and eventually gave up.

Merlin was still studying the map, checking the area around their location, probably trying to guess where the secret warlock headquarters might be.

"Do you think our contact is Welsh?" Arthur asked. "Well, she'd still speak English, I guess."

"I speak Welsh pretty well," Merlin said, folding the map.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. A lot of spells are pre-Saxon, so I picked it up. My grammar is a bit archaic, but I'm fluent enough."

"I'm so hot for you right now," Arthur confessed, and Merlin laughed, blushing a little. "Hey, if you weren't a warlock, what kind of career would you go for?"

"I'd teach, probably. Maybe research stuff. Or, I don't know, I wanted to work with animals when I was little. I like horses."

"You're such a girl," said Arthur, woozy with warm affection. "Hang on, this might be her. Act natural."

From the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching, and struggled not to look. The woman's high heels clicked cheerfully on the tarmac. Their rhythm slowed as she came closer and halted right next to them.

"Hello, lover," purred a very familiar voice. Arthur groaned out loud and buried his face in his hands.

"Of course," he said. "Merlin, remember I told you I was involved with a woman?"

"The wrong one?" asked Merlin innocently, staring straight at her.

"Yes. Well, Merlin, meet Sophia."

Arthur had met Sophia last year, at the beginning of February. She'd bumped into him in the hallway when he was heading to class, and as they both swayed for balance she'd grasped his arm, leaned close and whispered something into his ear.

He hadn't caught it. But by the time he'd straightened up and turned to look at her he already knew that he'd never met anyone like her, that she was perfect, she was the one. He'd met the right woman.

He blew off the rest of his classes without a moment's hesitation, even though he'd had perfect attendance since secondary school. They went to the nearest park, and there, under the bare tree branches, she kissed him for the first time.

"We're in love, aren't we?" he asked. There was no other explanation for that dizzying bliss he felt in her presence.

"We are," she said with a radiant smile. "You're mine."

They spent the rest of the day on a bench in the park, talking, kissing. She was perfect. She was beautiful, and had a beautiful name. She'd just moved to London with her father. She was just like Arthur, a single child who'd lost her mother too early to remember her. They were made for each other. When the sun had set and the air turned chilly, she climbed onto his lap and settled there, letting him wrap his coat around her to keep her warm. She was so small, light and soft, so different, and he was delighted to explore everything she was. He'd never felt so elated in his whole life, and suspected that this must be what being high felt like.

She kept saying something between kisses, odd lilting words that didn't make any sense, and he didn't even try to understand them. It was all part of her, a sweet quirk that only made her more endearing. He could have stayed there all night, holding her close, making out unabashedly in the middle of a park. People walked right past them, not sparing them a second glance. If he'd been kissing a boyfriend like that, in public, it would be considered a lewd spectacle. But he could kiss Sophia, hold her and touch her, and people only smiled at seeing them so in love, so happy.

But she was getting cold, despite his best efforts to shield her and warm her up with his body. He breathed on her icy fingers, and couldn't resist kissing each glitter-varnished fingernail.

"We should get inside," he said. "You must be hungry, we should have dinner, and then..."

"Tomorrow," she said and kissed him again. "Let's meet in London, in the morning, and we'll have the whole day together."

She got into a taxi, and didn't let him come with her, and wouldn't give him her phone number. But he knew she would show up tomorrow, she wouldn't just disappear. They were in love. They had a future together.

After the joy of that perfect day home was dull and empty. Uther was working late, and Morgana was zonked out on painkillers after one of her usual migraines. Arthur shut himself in his room and wanked slowly to the memory of Sophia's kisses, to the thought of seeing her tomorrow.

He brought flowers, and was prepared to wait. Sophia seemed the kind of girl to be fashionably late, to tease him. But she was already there, smiling at him, waving from the bench where they'd agreed to meet.

"Hi," he said, kissing her lips, loving the unfamiliar sticky slick of gloss on them. "God, you're even more amazing than I remember. I've never been this happy. I thought I'd been in love, but never like this."

"I know," she said, grinning with all her lovely pearly teeth. "It'll never be like this again, so enjoy it while you can."

"It will always be like this," he swore. "We'll be in love forever. I'm going to make you as happy as you've made me."

She giggled and ruffled his hair.

"Poor puppy," she said. "You're really quite gorgeous, Mr Pendragon. Seems silly to let all this go to waste. I think we're ready for you to come to my place."

He couldn't believe his luck – everything was happening so fast, was so wonderfully right. Her flat was only a short taxi ride away. After he'd paid, she took his hand, walked him up a dark narrow staircase, and pushed open an unlocked front door.

The apartment was tiny and dingy, barely furnished and cluttered with boxes. There was an elderly man in the front room, reading an antique volume at a small dining table.

"Daddy, meet Arthur Pendragon, my loving boyfriend," Sophia announced. The man put down the book, got up, and inspected Arthur closely, peering into his face.

"Well done, daughter," he said finally. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you, sir!" said Arthur, overjoyed by her family's approval. "I promise I will never disappoint you. I'll make Sophia happy."

"Oh, you will," said Sophia's father. "We should start making preparations. You're both ready."

"I've not even proposed yet," said Arthur, a little worried that he'd mess something up. He didn't want any mistakes ruining this; so far their courtship was perfect, would make a wonderful story to tell their children. "Should I propose properly? I've not got the ring..."

"Don't worry about that," Sophia smiled. "Daddy, I want to play with him now, can I? It's not going to ruin anything, right?"

"Of course you can, child," the man said indulgently. "It will only strengthen your bond. Enjoy yourself."

Sophia nodded and pulled Arthur into one of two bedrooms. The wallpaper there was mouldy; the bed took most of the space, with just enough left for a tiny bedside cabinet wedged in the corner.

"Your place is awful," Arthur said. "I can't wait for us to move in together."

"We've only rented it for a week, it's pretty cheap," she kicked off her shoes and settled on the bed. "Strip."

He did, slowly, trying to put on a show for her. She reclined back on the pillows, rucked up her skirt and stuck her hand down her silk white knickers. He could see her fingers move there as she watched him undress.

"Fuck, you're fit," she said. "Your arse is glorious. If I had a strap-on, I'd fuck it so hard. I bet you'd like that."

He moaned, shaking with lust, and she laughed.

"Let's teach you something new, though," she said. "I want your lovely mouth on my cunt. You want to please me, don't you, Arthur?"

He crawled up on the bed, between her legs. The skin on her inner thighs was impossibly soft, almost like silk, like only girl skin could be, and he covered it with reverent kisses. Then he peeled down her soaked knickers, and she twisted her fingers in his hair and pushed his face down, into the slick folds of her sex. He buried his nose in soft damp curls of her pubes and licked, up and down, closed his lips on her clit and sucked softly. It wasn't at all like sucking cock, but he would learn, he'd figure it all out. He'd make her so happy.

She kept him there, directing him by tugging on his hair and pressing his mouth where she wanted him. She taught him what to do with his hands, how to curl his fingers inside her just right. She was so generous, never kept him guessing, told him exactly what he needed to know to make her happy. She came under his tongue, humming contently, sinking her sharp little nails deep into his shoulders. Then she praised him and let him do it again, and again. He nearly cried in frustration when his muscles cramped so much he couldn't force them to move any more, and couldn't keep pleasing her.

"That's okay," she said, because she was kind and forgiving, his Sophia. "I'll have your pretty cock now. Roll over."

"Do we need a condom?" he asked, stretching on his back as she straddled him. "I'm clean, but if you don't want to be pregnant in the wedding pictures..."

To his dismay, he wasn't quite hard. But she wasn't offended; she sharply scratched one glittering fingernail across the slit on his cockhead, and the sudden pain somehow did it, made him ready for her.

"You're still thinking," she said. "It worries me. Stop."

He tried his best to empty his mind of everything but her and their love, and match her thrusts as she rode him. He'd done this without a condom maybe twice before, when he and Owen were still in secondary school and so permanently horny they never could stock up enough. Being with Sophia was overwhelming already, and this extra sharpness of the physical sensations was almost too much. Sophia was hot and slick in a different way, and her strong inner muscles clamped all around the length of his shaft, nearly milking him into orgasm right away.

"Don't come till I let you," she warned, and he bit on his lip till it hurt enough to distract him from pleasure and happiness.

She pushed her fingers deep into his mouth, told him to suck them, get them nice and wet. Then she stroked those spit-slick fingers over her clit, and let him watch her small fingers dance there as his cock pushed inside her. When she came again her cunt squeezed him unbearably tightly and sweetly, and he howled, scoring his palms bloody with his own fingernails, staving off his orgasm with all the willpower he had.

She kept him in that haze, on the edge of ecstasy, till he thought he'd lose his mind. She pulled him up and let him kiss her breasts, lick her pert nipples; then she pushed him down again and rode him hard, making the bed creak and bang against the wall.

"Okay," she said in the end. "You can come now. I bet you make hilarious sex faces."

He let go, and the relief was sharper than pleasure and left him empty and sorry that it was over. He couldn't move afterwards, every muscle in his body weak and quivering. She shifted on the bed to straddle his face and told him to clean up his mess. He licked up every drop, dipping his tongue into her, comforted by familiar bitter taste of come and almost ashamed of that.

"I'm sleepy, go home," she said afterwards. "Meet me tomorrow at sunrise, in Hyde Park by the round lake."

He got dressed and walked out of the bedroom, wobbly on his feet, happy. Sophia's father was still reading in the same spot. He glanced at Arthur and said:

"Young man, stay away from chocolate tonight. My daughter is as yet inexperienced, and I see she overdid it. We don't want you to end up in a hospital with serotonin poisoning and to ruin all our plans."

There was no chocolate for dinner. The dessert was lemon meringue pie, and Arthur ate it without worry. Morgana refused her dessert, as always. She looked awful - the migraine must have not let up yet.

Uther seemed in a fine mood, and Arthur thought this was as good a time as any.

"Father," he said, setting his dessert fork down. "I'm in love with a woman, and I'm going to marry her."

Morgana winced and spilled her tea all over the saucer.

"Well, that's a bit sudden," Uther said, frowning. "Who is she? How long has this been going on?"

"Her name is Sophia," Arthur said, happy to talk about her. "We're in love. I don't know her last name. She just moved to London, we met yesterday. We've not set the date yet, but it better be soon, I might have got her pregnant today."

"What's all this nonsense? Are you on drugs?"

"I'm serious, father. I'm going to marry her."

"You've never even dated anyone! Some gold-digging tart threw herself at you, and..."

"Don't talk about her like that," Arthur said. "And, by the way, father, I've been in four serious relationships. Every single one of them ended because I could never find the courage to tell you the truth. I won't let that happen again."

Uther got up, pushing his chair back with a screech.

"This is the last time I hear about this," he said. "If this woman comes near you again I'll have her arrested, and trust me, I'll come up with charges that'll stick."

He left the dining room. Arthur picked up his fork and finished his pie, thinking about Sophia, and their date tomorrow. He had to look up the sunrise time online so he wouldn't be late.

Suddenly Morgana was pulling him up, away from the table, and cornering him against the wall.

"Don't see her again," she said. "She doesn't love you. Something awful will happen if you ever see her again."

He smirked into her hideously pale face.

"Jealous?" he asked. "I always knew you fancied me, darling."

She peered at him closely, just like Sophia's father had before.

"It's already been done, hasn't it?" she said, her voice quivering. "It's too late. You can't even hear me any more."

Suddenly her already bloodshot eyes were brimming with tears. He'd never made her cry before, even though he'd spent quite a bit of their adolescence trying; he didn't understand what had upset her so much right now.

"I'll save you," she said. "You're my dumb little Arthur, I have to look after you. I can't take this anymore, anyway, I just can't. But if I can do this one thing first, it's more than enough."

And then she stormed out as well.

"Why is my family so weird?" Arthur shouted after her. "Why can't you two be more like Sophia's father?"

He was in the park by quarter past seven. Sophia and her father were already waiting for him at the edge of the water.

"I've been thinking about Valentine's Day," Arthur said after he kissed Sophia's warm lips. "Where do you want to go, Paris or Venice?"

"Oh, we can't do that, love," she said. "You see, I need you to die today. Would you die for me, Arthur?"

"Of course," Arthur nodded. "I'd do anything for you. But it really is a shame, I was hoping we'd get married and have children. We could be very happy together."

"It's so creepy that he's still cognisant," Sophia said, and her father reassuringly patted her shoulder.

"You'll get used to it," he said. "This is just the first time, your rite of passage. It gets easier. A few more, and you'll gather enough power to live forever."

"And we'll be together always," she smiled. "I know, daddy. I can do this."

She took Arthur's hand and led him into the freezing waters.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked, shivering. His bones were already aching from the chill. Water was soaking Sophia's yellow Topshop coat as they waded in deeper, to their waists.

"Your lifeblood will warm me up soon, love."

"Someone will interrupt us," said Arthur, suddenly worried. "The park is already pretty busy."

"Daddy is glamouring the area. No one will see."

They stopped, and she started chanting, and suddenly a terrible noise crashed over them. It was loud past the point of pain; he screamed, doubling over, certain his eardrums would burst and bleed. Then it ended, and he was led out of the pond by soldiers in body armour, and his father was there. It took Arthur a few moments to clear the ringing in his ears and hear what Uther was saying.

"You'd been enchanted, son, but don't worry, the spell is going to wear off..."

"I'm fine," Arthur said, still not really hearing his own voice, trying to control the volume so he wouldn't shout. "It's gone already."

Sophia's father was knocked out, shot full of tranq darts, and the soldiers were cuffing him and loading him into a van. Another bunch were pulling a blond girl out of the water. She was still conscious, just barely. He knew it was Sophia, but she looked nothing like the girl he thought he loved. It was exactly like waking up from a dream. Finally everything that had happened in the last few days was clear in his head. He knew that any moment now, as it all fully sunk in, he would be sick with embarrassment, maybe physically sick all over his father's bulletproof vest.

"How did you find me?" he asked, trying to keep distracted and delay the inevitable fallout.

"We got an anonymous phone call that there would be an attempt on your life here, at this time. We assumed that magic would be involved, and used a sonic weapon. It cuts through glamours sometimes..."

And then the last bit of weirdness of the last days made sense, and he started shivering all over again, shocked speechless by what it meant. Paramedics wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and tried to lead him to the ambulance, but he shrugged them off.

"I need to go home," he said. "Father, I'll be at the Commission in two hours, and I'll give my statement then."

"We're taking you to a hospital."

"I'm not injured. I need to change into dry clothes - Father, I need to be alone right now."

"You've no reason to be ashamed."

"I know. Just give me two hours, I need to pull myself together. I don't want to be seen like this."

Appealing to Uther's sense of pride always worked. Arthur got a ride home in a patrol car, ran past the concierge, dripping pond water on the staircase carpet, and burst into their flat.

He'd always known that Morgana had her own ideas about magic and the Old Religion. When she was younger she argued with Uther about it and openly questioned his every move, till one day she pushed too far. Arthur still remembered that ugly scene and the threats they'd both thrown at each other. Since then she'd been a lot sneakier about her political leanings. She'd developed a circle of rather suspicious friends, some of whom were almost definitely warlock sympathisers. But Arthur thought it was all talk, pretentious bohemian posturing. Never in a million years had he expected her to betray their family and join forces with the enemy.

A part of him was hoping Morgana would be gone already. But she was still in her room, furiously shoving random items of clothing into her luggage set.

"How did you know?" he demanded. "It was you who'd made that anonymous phone call, I know it was you. How did you know? How did you get mixed up with them? Did they get to me through you?"

"No," she said, slamming the suitcase shut with shaking hands.

"Morgana, fuck, tell me the truth!"

"Fine," she said and sat on the edge of the bed. She was already dressed for travel, in trousers, raincoat and flat shoes. "I'm tired of lies. You want to know how I knew? I saw it. I'm a seer, Arthur."

"Don't," he said. "Don't say things like that, it's not funny, Morgana. Just tell me they've tricked you, that they held all your shoes hostage, tell me you're sorry and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened. You did save me, you've given them up, that's all that matters now."

She stared at him challengingly, jutting out her sharp chin, like she used to stare down Uther all those years ago. But he could see past her defiance now, and all he saw was a scared, tired girl on the verge of tears.

"Oh fuck," he said. "Oh god. Morgana, no. Since when?"

"First thing I saw was my parents' death. I didn't know then what was happening to me, I thought it was just a nightmare..."

"That was ten years ago. Ten years, Morgana! Our whole lives! I never even knew you at all, did I? All that time you were - "

"What was I supposed to do?" she asked, getting up. "Was I supposed to confess? Was I meant to ask my dear guardian to shove me into mental institution while he built those prisons for people like me? Would that be an honourable thing to do?"

"No, of course not. You were just a child, I understand..."

"Oh, so should I have done it later? When do you think I should have decided I'd had enough of a life and it was time for prison now? When I was fourteen? Sixteen? Maybe right after I finished college? Come on, tell me!"

He had nothing to say to that. He looked away, so he wouldn't have to see all that fury and pain in her face, wouldn't have to watch her lips shaking. Her room was in chaos, all the drawers and wardrobes thrown open and gutted, and only then it really hit him - she was leaving.

"You don't have to go," he said, knowing it was useless to try changing her mind. "I'll keep your secret. You've kept all mine since we were tiny, you know I would..."

"No. I can't do this any longer. I can't even look at him. He'll keep building up his police state and persecuting my kind, and the warlocks will keep attacking my family, and I'll have to keep choosing sides. You've figured it out today, he would too soon enough if I stayed."

"Father loves you," Arthur said helplessly. "He really does. Maybe he'd see it differently, if it's you."

"Maybe. I love him too, god help me. That's why I'd rather hope than know for sure. And there's more. The visions are getting -" she sobbed and pressed her hand to her mouth. "It's unbearable now. I need help."

"So all your migraines were actually..."

She nodded, biting at her knuckles. He'd seen the reports about untrained warlocks, and so had she. They both knew how bad it could get.

"You'll need money," he said. "Take my cards, I'll write down the PIN numbers for you."

"I have all I need," she said tiredly. "I've been preparing for years. Just... never could find the courage."

They didn't do hugs; all their lives they'd bickered for fun and expressed their affection through stupid pranks. But right then he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her hair, and tell her he loved her, that she'd always be his sister. From his very first childhood memory, before he really knew his father, he'd known and loved her.

"Go," he said instead. "Good luck."

She left, and he showered and changed and went to the Commission to give his statement, and they didn't get home till very late.

Morgana had left a note for Uther in her ransacked room, asking him not to look for her and not offering any explanation. Arthur expected Uther to immediately start a full investigation and push a missing persons report through without the proper waiting period. But Uther simply folded the note into his wallet and went to his bedroom without a single word.

Three days had passed before they spoke about Morgana again.

"If she ever contacts you," Uther said over dinner, not even mentioning her name, and paused.

"I don't think she will," Arthur said neutrally. He knew eventually he'd have to do some damage control, but he still hadn't figured how to keep her safe without letting on too much and making up lies he'd have to maintain later.

"If she does... If she needs help... Help her."

Arthur nodded and stuffed his mouth full of tortellini till he could barely manage to chew, to give himself time to think before he blurted anything out. Uther knew about Morgana, or at least suspected. That's why he was afraid to talk about her - because he suspected that Arthur knew as well.

But that was it, as much of a conversation as they'd ever had about it. The murder attempt case was dealt with swiftly and publicly, and Arthur testified in open court. He looked right at Aulfric and Sophia and knew he should be feeling anger, disgust, want revenge for being used and humiliated and nearly killed. But all he could feel was loss and worry for Morgana, and it was so consuming that everything else seemed petty and meaningless.

The trial was a formality, a routine PR exercise. There could be only one sentence. It was always the same sentence for everyone with magic, whether they'd attempted murder or simply had weird dreams, like Morgana.

At the end Aulfric had had the last word, and he'd made an appeal to the court, asking for them to be put in the same Facility, either one.

It would've been unthinkable for any regular prison, of course, but doubly so in this case. Separation of sexes was the point of the Facilities, even more than the containment of possibly violent magicians. It wasn't openly talked about, but the working theory was that magic was an inherited condition. By locking up men and women half a country apart Uther was hoping to breed the magic out of the gene pool within a single generation.

Aulfric and Sophia had been calm and quiet through the trial, but when they'd realised they'd never see each other again they fell to pieces, crying and begging, clutching at each other. That's how Arthur saw her for the last time: hysterical, terrified, screaming "Daddy, daddy!" like a small child. And he knew how she felt, because he felt like that, too. He missed Morgana like he'd miss a limb, only he couldn't even scream and beg, couldn't even talk about it to anyone.

Sophia looked very different now. For one, she no longer wore high street clothes. Her current outfit would make Morgana envious, even in her craziest fashionista stage. Her hair and skin were glowing, healthy and pampered, and even her fingernails, glittery as ever, somehow looked very expensive.

"I see you've done well for yourself," Arthur said.

"That I have. And I hear you've had some exciting erotic adventures lately! I bet you got off on being used like a whore. You always had a bit of a sub kink going on."

"Fuck you, evil ex," Arthur said emphatically. "Why so bitter, Soph? Still can't get a shag unless you put a guy under a spell?"

"Course I can," she said cheerfully. "Spell are just for raging poofters like you who can't get it up without hardcore magic."

"Yes, I'm honestly surprised my dick is still functioning after being in your..."

"Hi, I'm Merlin!" said Merlin with a desperately pleasant smile and stuck out his hand for Sophia to shake. She regarded it with a raised eyebrow and an amused sneer. "I guess you're our contact, yeah?"

"I guess you're Arthur's bit of a rough, Merlin?" she said, mocking his inflections. "Can't say you've done it all till you've gone slumming, right, lover?"

"Don't talk like that to my boyfriend," Arthur said, resolutely not looking at the blotches of red spreading on Merlin's face. "And get off your high horse right fucking now. Just because you're all tarted up in Prada, don't presume you're worth half as much as his little finger. You're not."

"You know what?" she said contemplatively. "I didn't actually get to know you before I enchanted you. But now I think I kinda like you."

"Ooh," Arthur drawled. "Burn. Congratulations, you've managed to upset me. Can we talk business now?"

She rolled her eyes, snapped her handbag open and showed the contents to them. It held nothing but two pairs of handcuffs, folded snugly against the silk lining.

"Put these on behind your backs," she said.

"What for?"

"Can't take you in without precautions."

"In - where?"

"Can't tell you," she grinned. "It's all very spy movie, I know. But that's how we roll."

She waved to someone over their heads, and a white van drove down the road and pulled up to the parking spot by the railway station. It was unmarked, but Arthur knew a prisoner transport when he saw one.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked. "Are you working for the Government now?"

She laughed and tipped her handbag over, dropping the cuffs on the bench.

"You can put these on and get into the car," she said. "Or you can stay on this bench till your father arrests you again and you go back to dropping the soap in the showers. I really can't predict which one you'd prefer. It's quite suspenseful for me right now."

Arthur picked up the handcuffs and snapped them on his wrists behind his back. Merlin was still hesitating, slowly running one finger over the metal rings of the other pair.

"Merlin," Arthur told him quietly. "I understand why you don't want to do this. This must be an awful memory for you, I get that. Last time I was cuffed and put into one of these vans it didn't turn out so great for me either. I don't trust my evil ex, and I can't ask you to. Maybe it's best if you stay behind in case I need you to rescue me."

"No, it's not that," Merlin said and looked up at Sophia. "Why are you doing this? Are you so jealous that he's with me now? Or are you simply sadistic?"

"Just a precaution, muffin, pay attention," she said. "I'm not jealous at all, by the way. Been there, tapped that, not impressed enough to want another go. Oh, and for your sake, I do hope he sucks cock better than he eats pussy."

"And for your sake, Sophia," said Merlin mildly. "I hope you stop right there, before you really piss me off. So you know what happened to Arthur in the Facility."

"Yes! Daddy told me all about it, in graphic detail!"

"Did daddy tell you that the man who did it is dead now?"

Sophia blinked and shut her mouth with a snap.

"What you did, with the enchantment, wasn't much better," Merlin said. "And you're still alive. Quit while you're ahead."

He picked up the cuffs, gingerly, with his fingertips, as if the metal was hot, threaded them behind his back and clicked the bracelets closed over his slim wrists.

This really wasn't the time for randy fantasies, but Arthur couldn't help it. Merlin's shoulders looked even sexier like that, straightened and pulled back by his cuffed arms. His exposed neck was tense and vulnerable, and Arthur could pin him to the bed and lick it for hours, have Merlin at his mercy, laid open for him. He imagined the way Merlin would buck under him, clenching his fists, tensing his wrists against the metal. Maybe he'd even pull on the cuffs too hard on purpose, so the edge of pain would make the pleasure even sharper. And afterwards Arthur would get to kiss the red marks off his skin, run his tongue over those sharp, fine bones on Merlin's wrists. They had to try that some day, under better circumstances.

Sophia opened the back door of the van and kicked out the metal step. They climbed in and awkwardly settled on one of the benches, side by side. She got in with them, locked the doors and sat on the opposite side, carefully smoothing her skirt down.

The van was fitted with a full complement of restraints, as per regulations. There were chains to fasten prisoners to the wall, and leg cuffs rattling under the bench, but Sophia didn't bother with those. She tapped on the front partition, signalling to the driver, and the van set off with a lurch.

"Is it far?" Arthur asked after a minute of trying to brace against the metal bench with his hands cuffed. The ride was bumpy and increasingly unpleasant.

"About ten miles," Merlin answered, and Sophia giggled.

"Aren't you clever," she said. "Figured it all out, have you?"

"Makes sense," Merlin said in a breathy, odd voice. "It's the nearest place that would make a good sanctuary..."

Merlin didn't look right. He'd just got over his magical injuries, and he'd looked so good all day, so healthy. Now he was turning sickly green again, and a sheen of sweat was breaking out on his face. Arthur shifted closer and pressed against him as much as he could with his arms behind his back.

"What's up?" he asked, nudging Merlin's ear with his chin. "Panic attack?"

"No," said Merlin through clenched teeth. "It's the cuffs. It... hurts a bit."

"Did you snap them on too tight? Merlin, seriously, how clumsy are you? Soph, get the key, we need to loosen..."

"These cuffs are made out of non-tempered iron," Sophia said. "They're designed to hurt. Haven't you ever heard of the special restraints, Arthur?"

"Get them off him. Now."

"Oh, he can take it. I'm sure it's not his first time. Did you know, Arthur, that your father wanted to fit all magic folk in this country with cold iron anklets? One for each man, woman and child, to be worn constantly, so they'd always be in pain and could never be strong enough to use their magic. He even gathered enough meteoric iron to do it. And some people volunteered for that program, because as long as they wore the anklets they could stay with their families and not go to the Facility. They wore those things for months, without a single complaint, till two of them dropped dead and the project was cancelled. Do you know what your father did then with all that cold iron? He had it made into a cage."

"I know. I've seen it. But, come on, Sophia, why are you doing this to Merlin? He's one of you! Do you think he deserves to be tortured just because he doesn't hate me like you do?"

"Oh, please," said Sophia. "I'm only making a point."

"What's your point, then, that you're a psycho? I knew that already! Just - stop it, don't do this to him, just tell me what you want from me and I'll..."

"Arthur, it's fine," Merlin said, rubbing his knee against Arthur's thigh. "I fixed it, it doesn't hurt anymore."

He was relaxed and smiling again. Arthur closed his eyes for the moment, relieved, and then leaned over to kiss him right in front of Sophia, past caring if she watched.

"Nice one. Did you break the cuffs?" he asked.

"No. If they feel safer with me handcuffed, fair enough. I just tempered the iron for now."

"Wow," Sophia said, pink-faced, slowly licking her lips. "That was hot. Hey. When you get bored with Pendragon, and you know you will soon - come and find me."

"God, no, thanks," Merlin said and defensively crossed his legs. "But you should meet my ex. The two of you would really hit it off."

The van came to a stop, and Sophia unlocked the door and pushed them out of the car.

They were in the middle of a courtyard of a magnificent castle, surrounded by hundreds of people. Arthur stared in dismay at the high ornate towers of white stone, at the curious, excited faces of all those well-dressed strangers around them, and felt completely lost. Dumping them, handcuffed and helpless, in the middle of a tourist attraction would be just Sophia's idea of a great prank, but it didn't make any sense at all.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"The Wales Facility," Merlin said. "You know, the women's prison."

"This is a prison?"

Arthur had never been to the Wales Facility, and had no idea that it hadn't been purpose-built like the Cheshire one. He knew that most castles had served as prisons at some point, some even now. They were very secure structures, after all. But he couldn't believe that anyone would use this beautiful building for that. It probably wasn't of high historical value, he'd seen more opulent and better kept castles, but this one felt special somehow. The lines of its battlements, the round towers, the tall archways - there was more to it than just aesthetics. It called to him on some deeper level, tugging at the genetic memory, his sense of the past, his ties to this land. The castle was history itself. It should be a museum. It could be a hotel, a venue for celebrations or somebody's cherished family home, but it shouldn't be a prison.

The crowd around them was mostly female, but they weren't wearing prison uniforms. They were all dressed in nice, trendy clothes; there were quite a few men among them, and even several small children. These people couldn't be inmates.

Arthur glanced around, saw a man in a guard uniform and flinched, which, he supposed, was just a natural instinct for anyone wearing handcuffs. The guard looked at him indifferently and went on sweeping the yard with the broom he was holding. A little further away two guards were pushing a laundry cart towards the side entrance of the castle. All those were supposed to be the jobs for the inmates, their work rota...

Someone was pushing through the crowd to get closer - all Arthur saw was a glimpse of dark hair, but he knew who that was, he had no doubts. He ran towards her, clumsily shouldering his way through, and then her arms were around him, and she was laughing, kissing his cheeks and stroking his hair. She was there, just as if they'd never been apart.

"Morgana, Morgana," he kept saying. Nothing else came to his mind, and it felt good to say her name. He's not said it for over a year.

"Arthur," she said, and he hooked his chin on her shoulder and clung to her tight. "Why are you handcuffed? Sophia, you vindictive little shit, give me the key!"

"Well, excuse me for doing my job properly, your majesty!" Sophia huffed, digging through the pockets on her handbag.

Before she'd even found the key, the bracelets on Arthur's wrists snapped open and the cuffs fell off. He grabbed Morgana and gave her a proper bear hug, and lifted her up to twirl her a bit.

But she didn't react at all. She looked over his shoulder, back at Merlin, and everyone in the courtyard, including the kids, silently stared at him as well.

"Hi!" Merlin said with a self-conscious smile, and waved at them with his own pair of handcuffs. The bracelets were broken, twisted and mangled, far more than had been necessary to open them. "I'm Merlin!"

"Did he just..." Morgana muttered, and then the whole crowd was full of murmurs and whispers. "Did he break out of cold iron restraints?"

"Why are you surprised?" shrugged Sophia. "Of course he did! He's motherfucking Emrys!"

 


	14. Lady of the Lakes

Both Facilities went operational at the same time and with roughly the same number of inmates. They had a similar complement of guards and the same official security protocols. Unofficially the security was tighter at the men's prison, and that's where the cold iron cage ended up as well. The Commission expected that the female prisoners would be less troublesome and a lot easier to control.

They'd been right - the women had never planned a riot. Their plans, from the very start, were a lot more urgent and far-reaching.

Since the dawn of the Old Religion it always had a lot more priestesses than priests. The magic of men tended have a distinct flavour: it was wild and sharp, quick and fragile. Some considered it expendable - perfectly suited for battles and probing into the new areas of magic, no great loss if things go awry. Boys had been encouraged to become researchers and fighters, the ones who'd push the magic and themselves to the limits, reach for new heights. Sometimes those experiments led to breakthroughs, sometimes to catastrophes, but that was the way of progress.

The guardianship of the lore, the rituals that affected the whole of the land, the deep, vast, vital kind of magic - that was the women's domain. Here, in the Facility, the women of Old Religion had been united again after years of running, hiding, being locked up in mental wards and solitary units in prisons. They knew what their task was. It hadn't changed since the beginning of time.

The first months were the hardest. The guards were nervous and extremely vigilant. The warden was determined to instil order and strict discipline from the very start, break them all before they even considered fighting back.

They hadn't fought back. They kept their heads down, swallowed their pride, never took more risks than were absolutely necessary. It was still risky, and the retribution was awful every time there were caught. They bore it, and continued their work.

Every day all of the prisoners were taken to the workroom set up in the former Great Hall of the castle. They were kept there most of the day and made to hem tea towels by hand, just to keep them busy and tired. It took three months to slowly weave small glamours through the rooms, and then a few final spells to tighten and solidify the illusion. The tea towels would still be hemmed in the corner, in great quantities, by magic. But the Great Hall was now a temple of the Old Religion, and here the ancient rituals were performed again. The magic that flowed through their circle as they gathered there gave them new power, almost like in days of old, before the war had started.

From then on it was easy to spread the glamours through most of the castle and slowly bring it under their control. By the time two years had passed, life inside was bearable enough. The new arrivals were taken into the fold of the Old Religion, healed, taught, cared for. It wasn't freedom, not exactly. They were still watched, and they still had to constantly keep up the pretence, follow the routines set up by the warden, at least outwardly. They had now, between them, enough magic to escape. But the Facility had already became the greatest temple of the Old Religion in the country, and there was no other safe place where they could be together and work their magic the way they needed to.

Instead, the priestesses kicked the glamours up a notch and brought their friends and families into the castle, to live with them.

The guards still saw everything the way it used to be: wan, docile women in ugly orange uniforms, their bare cells converted from the former servants' and guest quarters of the castle. In fact the place was then more like dorms of a campus - not quite a home, a huge uncomfortable mess, full of sneaky shenanigans. But also full of life, everyone studying, learning from each other, bonding, working towards fulfilling their destiny.

Morgana told all that to Arthur exactly the same way she used to talk about her feminist heroes: excited and proud, as if all of it was her personal doing.

"Okay," he said. "That's awesome. Why are the guards washing the floor?"

Every time he saw a guard they'd be quietly absorbed in some menial task, clearly not noticing that anything was amiss in this place. It was all quite creepy, in Arthur's opinion.

"Yeah, that," said Morgana uncomfortably. "Well, apparently, when Sophia got here, she kept getting into trouble with the guards. Because she's a spoiled twat, basically, and couldn't even pretend to be following their rules. So she was in a solitary for a month, and when she got out she was even more unhinged. And then she enchanted the warden."

"For fuck's sake," Arthur hissed, cringing.

"Don't get me wrong, a lot of us think it's unethical. But so was what they did to us. And it did make everything a lot easier, so the priestesses decided to keep him that way and let Sophia do the guards, too. Look, no, it's just while they're here. They still go home every night, and they still get paid, and you know, they're really happy."

"Yeah, I know, I remember! I can't believe you're fine with it."

"By the time I got here it was done already," she said lightly.

Arthur knew that Morgana's idea of justice wasn't quite like his. When they were growing up, she'd often accused him of being a bully. And maybe be was a bit. He despised weakness, and used to think that those who didn't have the guts to fight back deserved everything they had coming. Morgana was fair to a fault, always took the side of the underdog and always prevailed. She'd been the queen bee in every group, and her followers instantly swayed her way. But underneath it all she had a mean streak that scared him sometimes. Whenever Arthur won a fight or intimidated someone into submission, he considered the matter resolved and forgot all about it. But when someone wronged Morgana or anyone whom she felt protective about, she'd make all those responsible pay for it till they could pay no longer, and she was ruthless in her righteousness.

She took him inside the castle, into a large, bright room that served as a common area. Merlin hovered close, surrounded by a group of young women who chatted to him excitedly. And he smiled and chatted back, effortlessly charming - he was already developing groupies.

"How did you get here?" Arthur asked Morgana instead of sulking at Merlin. "I know you've never been arrested. I'd have heard."

"I came here on my own," she said. "I'm not even here most of the time, I travel a lot for my work. You knew I had friends, even back home, who were sympathetic to my people. Some of them were even passing, like I was."

"Passing? Is that what you call it now?"

"It's what it was. I was pretending to be something I wasn't. Well, I went to them for help, and they put me in touch with Gwen. I stayed with her for a while, and we came up the idea how we could help more people like me."

"Oh, the safehouse network?" asked Merlin.

"She was already setting something up, but with my contacts and resources it all really took off," Morgana nodded.

"You're in charge of the safehouse network?" Arthur asked. "Wow, Morgana. If Father only knew what kind of monster he'd created - well, between having multiple strokes he'd be secretly very proud of you."

"It's not just me," she said, biting down a smug smile. "But, yes. We didn't know that this place wasn't a prison any more, and they didn't know about us. But when we got big enough they noticed and made contact, and since then we've merged our operations. This is our main base now."

"How come we had no idea about any of this?"

"It's called underground resistance, darling, it's supposed to be rather secret, you know."

"Merlin, did you know?" Arthur asked.

"Well, I'd heard of Gwen, I heard there were people who would risk helping a warlock sometimes, but that's it... If only I'd known!" he sighed wistfully. "All that time, back in Cheshire, I felt like it was us against the whole world. Sometimes just me against everything. I thought it was even worse here, and there was nothing at all for us on the outside..."

"By the time people here had enough freedom and magic to communicate with the Cheshire Facility, they couldn't reach them," Morgana said. "The spells just wouldn't go through."

"Ahh," said Merlin sheepishly. "That could be my fuck-up, actually. I did a bit of a barrier magic there..."

"Yes, we know already," announced Sophia, dramatically posing in a doorway. "Thanks to me, by the way! I never gave up like everyone else here, I tried to contact my father every day. Two days ago I finally heard him. He's coming here, to live with me - that is, if you don't object, Emrys."

"Um," said Merlin. "He's asking my permission?"

"We both are."

"Oh, so now he cares what I think. Does he think we're still friends and I'm not at all angry about Cornelius? I'm sure Aulfric sent us to that meeting hoping I'd get killed."

"Oh, no," Sophia said. "Of course not, you're Emrys! He was only hoping Cornelius would capture your power and use it better than you. Come on, you know you've not done great so far. This war would be long over if you were less squeamish."

Merlin stared at her incredulously, and she stepped closer and gave him a broad, alluring smile.

"Emrys, there are people who don't see you as our salvation and new hope. Actually, most of the old ones think you're a traitor, a coward and a hindrance. They think you're siding with the enemy, and they want nothing more than to be rid of you. Well, they can't do that, of course, but you still need allies. I've spoken to my father, and we both think you're the one we should be backing. We'll be honoured to serve you."

"Cheers for that," Merlin muttered with a disgusted grimace. "Wait. Am I, like... literally Emrys?"

"Course," Sophia nodded. "You've always been, it's part of the package. What, you haven't noticed yet?"

"What kind of stupid question is that, anyway?" Arthur asked while Merlin frowned and chewed his lip, as if he struggled to remember if he, indeed, noticed any signs of literal Emrysness. "How can you be figuratively Emrys?"

Merlin shrugged unhelpfully.

"It's like you're not happy about it," Sophia huffed. "Some of us have to work our arses off for that kind of a sweet deal, you know. Do you know how many sacrifices I have to offer - "

"Don't talk about killing people in front of me," Merlin said.

"Fine, fine," she kicked off her Blahniks, slipped into a free chair and snapped her fingers. A guard appeared at her side almost immediately and stood there quietly, with his head bowed.

"Footrub," she said. The man knelt by her feet and began massaging them. She crossed her arms over her designer jacket and looked down at him with a wolfish grin.

"I'm thinking of all those times you beat and tasered me," she said. "I think about it a lot. I don't know why I'm so good to you."

"I'm so sorry, Sophia," the man said in a sickeningly sincere voice. "May I buy you more shoes?"

"I'm going to throw up," Arthur announced and bolted outside.

 

Fresh air helped, and he stayed out, on the gallery. Morgana went to check on the priestesses; Merlin was instantly surrounded by a fresh crowd of women who wanted to get to know Emrys, but he somehow managed to extricate himself and joined Arthur in a quiet corner. They leaned over the railing and watched the courtyard bustle around them.

"This place is amazing," Merlin said.

"They keep slaves."

"I know, that's... disgusting, yes. But that's how our people can be free in here. It's better than what we did in Cheshire."

"I'm not so sure."

"I'll tell Sophia to knock off the abuse. But, look, they do great work here. They keep families together, teach kids to control their magic... Arthur, they look happy. And we're welcome here."

"They brought us in handcuffed. No, all right, I understand all that. They really can't be too careful. They don't have a barrier, and they have children here. If the secret comes out... Hell, I don't want to even think about it."

Merlin pressed against his side and rolled his head on Arthur's shoulder.

"Let's just enjoy this for a moment," he said.

Arthur distractedly kissed his hair, and the crowd watching them burst into whispers and giggles. Some of the girls were giving him an evil eye, but he'd never expected to be liked in either of the Facilities. Except these weren't looks of hatred. They were more like jealousy.

And only then it hit him: his boyfriend was Emrys, the chosen one. Merlin was like royalty to these people. A lot of them probably wanted to have his babies. He might be expected to take a suitable consort, or participate in ritual orgies. Either way, Arthur was pretty sure that Emrys wasn't supposed to be dating a Pendragon.

They were summoned to meet the priestesses, and were taken up the stairs, through long corridors, up to the area where the masters of the castle must have had their private chambers. The sun had almost set by now, but the low gold-red light still reached through the tall windows, illuminating the majestic beauty of the building. Arthur would love to live here, if things were different.

The room they were led into was immaculately clean and decorated with fresh flowers. The furniture could be original from when the castle was first build, judging by the style, and was in great condition. The whole of the castle, as much as they'd seen, was like that - lovingly kept, made into a home.

Morgana and Sophia were in the room, along with four older women.

"I am Laudine," said one of them, gesturing at the empty chairs. "Please, sit. These are my sisters."

Arthur wasn't sure if she meant they were related or if this was a poetic religious reference, so he simply bowed slightly and sat down. The women watched him with pursed lips, silent; Morgana was smiling reassuringly. Merlin pushed a chair next to his and sat down too, possessively hooking his ankle over Arthur's.

"As you already know, this is Morgana, our envoy to our friends on the outside, and Sophia, who helps us with security. In light of certain past events, sending her as your contact might seem an odd choice. But I'm sure you understand why we need to be cautious, and she's our best specialist in glamours and battle magic."

"No mission too risky," Sophia said with a little fist pump.

"First of all, let me welcome you to our home, Emrys," Laudine said with a bow. "It's an honour to meet you."

"Thanks," Merlin said. "I really like what you've done here. Compared to this - I've only just realised how horrid our place really is."

"We're in charge of the budget now," said one of Laudine's sisters. "All the money that was used to keep us subdued goes towards the amenities. And, of course, we work our magic."

"How do you..." Merlin stared, leaning forward. He clearly wanted to talk housekeeping and tactics, but then he glanced back at Arthur and shifted back in his chair. "We came here to find answers."

"Ask," Laudine said. Merlin nudged Arthur's foot, passing the conversation over to him.

Arthur carefully cleared his throat, trying not to wilt under their stares.

"I understand this isn't what you want to talk about," he said. "You've not been in contact with your men for years. And Merlin is Emrys, this is a big deal, I know. But I need some information. First of all, why am I here?"

"We called, and you came."

"Yes," he said, summoning all his patience. "Why did you call us here?"

"We did it at Morgana's behest," Laudine said, affectionately touching Morgana's shoulder. "We know our men met you with animosity. But we're not going to hold your parentage against you. Your father betrayed you, just as he would have betrayed her. To us, you're Morgana's brother. We agreed to offer you sanctuary amongst us."

"Can I leave? Or do I already know too much?"

"Where would you go?" Morgana asked. "Arthur, there's no place safer. Stay with me."

He took a breath and shook his head.

"I can't stop being my father's son," he said. "No more than any of you could stop being magic. All his mistakes are my responsibility, I have to fix them. I can't just sit here in Morgana's custody - this isn't where I belong. I need to get back."

"You can work with me," said Morgana. "We can help so many people together. Arthur, the spell that framed you..."

"Do you know who did it?" he asked, digging his fingers into the wood of the chair. "Is that person here right now?"

"No," said Laudine. "She's not. There is only one among us capable of that level of craft. Her name is Nimueh."

"I know who she is," he said. He's heard that name through all of his childhood, and he hated every syllable in it, so much that just hearing it made his vision darken. "She killed my mother."

"That was an accident," said Laudine. "Arthur, you need to know this. Nimueh never meant to hurt anyone. What she did back then was irresponsible, but she meant no harm."

"Accidental manslaughter, then," he gritted out.

"We paid for her mistake a thousandfold, don't you think?"

Nothing could be adequate payment for that, but he knew she had a point.

"Okay," he said. "How can I find her? How can I undo the spell? Will she bargain with me, what would she want in exchange?"

"You can't find her. She abandoned her responsibilities a long time ago. She's consumed with grief and rage, and revenge is her only desire now. She resides in her place of power, and even we, her former pupils, couldn't enter it without her permission. Nothing can harm her there, and even if she died, the spell would persist. All she wants now is for Uther Pendragon to suffer."

"And to be rid of me," said Merlin. "She's one of those who want me gone, right?"

Laudine approached him and touched his chin, making him look her in the eyes.

"She can't do that," she said softly. "Nobody can. You've nothing to fear. Yes, she's furious with you, you've interfered with her vengeance. You're a wild card in this war, and that unsettles some people. They wish Emrys had never been born. But we believe that you're exactly what the balance required. Your power rose from the blood and suffering of your people."

"I know, I know," Merlin muttered, shifting in his chair. "I'm supposed to..."

"You are what you're supposed to be. Dear boy, your kindness is part of your power. The magic gifted us with you, and you're exactly what we need to overcome our pain and walk out of this darkness."

"I've no idea how," Merlin whispered and scrunched his eyes shut. "I wish I'd... but, you said you'd help Arthur, didn't you? So there's something that can be done, right?"

"We can help him by offering him a safe place to live out the rest of his days," said Laudine. "Only Nimueh can undo the spell, and she won't. She scryed your arrival, and she's already sent us a message demanding that we turn both of you away and refuse you any assistance. But we're not going to do that. This we agree on: if we have to choose sides, we choose to stand with Emrys. You're our future."

The women stood up and bowed, and then left the room without another word.

"That's it, then," Arthur said after they'd sat in the empty room for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. "End of the road. All that's left for me to do is live out the rest of my days."

"I'm not going to give up on you," Merlin said, and touched his hand gently. Right now this kindness was unbearable, clawing at his insides, making him weak.

"I need to sleep on this," Arthur said, pulling back. "Just to let this all sink in. It's not so bad, it really isn't. I just need some time alone. I'll see you later, all right?"

And he fled, trying not to look back at Merlin's crestfallen face.  
Morgana caught him in some random corridor while he wandered around blindly, trying to get enough air into his chest.

"Found you a room," she said. "Fit for a prince. It's a bit dusty, but I'm having it cleaned. Come on."

The room was unexpectedly huge, with beautiful stained glass windows. It was probably used as a storage space, and now only held two pieces of furniture too large to move out: an ornate carved wardrobe and a four-poster bed. Several guards were inside, sweeping up the cobwebs and laying out fresh bed linens.

"God, Morgana," Arthur moaned. She shooed the guards away as if they were pigeons.

"Fine, you can do it by hand then," she said. "You'll probably be staying with Merlin, anyway, they're putting him in a guest suit, but I thought you'd want your own space."

He grunted out a choked thank you and crawled onto the bed face down. She sat on the edge of the mattress, hovering over him uncertainly.

"You'll like it here," she said. "I know you've been through shit, and it's not the outcome you were hoping for, but..."

"Please leave," he muttered into the pillow. She rose quietly, without arguing, and softly closed the door behind her.

He lay there, motionless, till the room was completely dark. Whenever he tried to assess his situation or plan ahead, he just felt sorry for himself, so gut-wrenchingly sad he couldn't breathe. His eyes were burning, and he was afraid to blink. He had to gnaw on the pillow cover and thump his fist against the bedpost till the wave of misery passed and he felt a little more in control again.

It was easier when he'd feared for his life and expected to be assaulted at any moment. At least that had given him immediate focus. Now he had to accept that this would be the rest of his days, that this would be his world.

He fell asleep, and woke up when the sun was already high. He turned over and stared into the ceiling, past where the bed canopy would be.

He could like it here. He could live in this room; it already felt almost like a new home. He could find a place for himself here, do some kind of work...

And then it all crashed on him even harder, suffocating and terrible, and he had to stop thinking, and somehow he fell asleep again.

When he woke up he tried to think what it was like for Merlin, and Morgana, when they knew they could never go home again. They survived this without breaking, and so would he. But they had magic, and they were with their kin. They were connected to something greater in a way he could never understand.

For a few hours he simply watched coloured sunlight spill through the windows, painting walls and the floor in glowing shapes. In the afternoon Morgana came into the room again, bearing two apples and a ham sandwich.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Good."

They were comfortably quiet for a while. Arthur ate one of the apples, more to slake his thirst. He still wasn't hungry.

"I'm going back to the men's Facility," he said finally, feeling his stomach drop just at the sound of that. "I know you're all right now. Hopefully we'll be able to talk, like Sophia does with her father. I can't stay here."

"Why? Do the enchanted guards bother you that much?"

"They really do," he said. "I can't stand it, it will have to change, Morgana, somehow it must be stopped. But also, there I'll be able to see my father. He probably thinks I'm dead by now. I can't ask him to visit me here, not without putting all these people at risk. Merlin will head back there soon, the men need him. He'll take me."

"Are you sure? After all that's..." and then she smiled cheekily, nodding. "Oh, well, if Merlin's going, then I understand."

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Now that everyone agrees that Merlin's Emrys, they won't try anything. It might get a bit unpleasant when he dumps me - but, no, he'll still keep me safe."

"When he dumps you? Why would he?" Morgana asked. "I think he really likes you."

"Come on, Morgana. I'm Arthur Pendragon. At best, if they all decide not to hold my parentage against me, I'm nobody. Some guy with no magic. He shouldn't be with me, hell, I'd myself advise him against it. He can do a lot better."

"Merlin's not like that," said Morgana. Arthur wanted to argue that she'd barely met the man, but she'd always been a better judge of character than him. And on this point they happened to agree.

"Merlin's not," he conceded. "But Emrys should be. He has enemies, he always will, and he needs someone who can support him and fight by his side. I'm useless."

"You're so dim, it's cute sometimes," she said. "Look, you need to get up and go and talk to your boyfriend. He's wandering all over the place like a lost little lamb, my friends are fighting over who gets to comfort him."  
He found Merlin up on the battlements. From there the view of the lake and the village below was breathtaking. For a moment Arthur wanted to linger there and let the generous September sunlight pool under his skin, and just watch the world underneath, perfect and peaceful from this height. Here they could talk about the future without him falling to pieces. They could make some plans. They hadn't been apart for so long since they'd met, and he was missing Merlin already.

But Merlin wasn't alone. He was talking to a skinny dark-haired girl. Arthur watched them from the doorway - they were in the middle of the walkway, about twenty yards from where he stood, and he couldn't hear the conversation. But he could see the way she leaned towards Merlin, touched his arms, tilted her head and looked straight into his eyes, trying to convince him of something.

Merlin seemed to hold his ground. He kept giving her bright, reassuring smiles, but the way he shook his head was firm and final. Her shoulders slumped, and Arthur stepped back, into the shadow of the doorway, relieved and slightly ashamed. The scene was hard to misinterpret. If Arthur was to hazard a guess, she'd probably been asking if she could climb Merlin like a tree and ride him till his amazing ears fell off. Arthur certainly sympathised with the sentiment, but he didn't have to like it when random hussies hit on his boyfriend. But Merlin had let her down gently, and now he was going to walk away.

Only Merlin wasn't walking away. He squared his shoulders and determinedly extended a hand toward the girl. She wrapped a thin leather bracelet around his wrist and carefully tied it in place. And then Merlin ducked his head and kissed her on the lips.

Arthur watched them pull close together, trading lingering open-mouthed kisses. They both had their eyes closed, lost in each other. They were beautiful together. Both so lithe and fair-skinned, they looked like creatures of pure magic, something that mere humans shouldn't get to touch. Sunlight sparkled over their dark hair as they shifted again, deepening the kiss. Arthur turned and left quietly, and went back to his room.  
He sat on the bed, tapping his foot, chasing the tails of his own thoughts as they flashed through his head in jumbled turmoil. Before he'd managed to calm down even a little, the door swung open without a knock and Merlin came in. He closed the door behind himself and leaned on it, silently, his hands folded behind his back. They stared at each other across the room; Arthur felt his heart jumping against his ribs, and waited.

Merlin still looked excited, even elated in a subdued way. His eyes were wild, but he held himself very still, and the half-smile on his lips was almost sad. He seemed to be steeling himself for something. This was like waiting for the axe to fall.

"Just say it," Arthur told him. "Fuck, Merlin, be a man and say it."

"What do you mean?" Merlin asked, so innocently Arthur could've hit him. "Did someone tell you something?"

"I saw you. With that girl, on the battlements."

"Oh, the kissing," said Merlin light-heartedly, and chuckled. "Yeah, that wasn't what you think."

"Really," Arthur said, clenching his fists till his bones ached. He'd been hoping they could do it with some measure of dignity. A clean break, still keep their friendship. But no, this was going to be ugly and gut-wrenching, and they'd hate each other when it was over. "Okay, tell me what it was."

Merlin didn't answer. He simply stood there and smiled that horrible, brittle smile, and Arthur could take it no longer.

"Shall I tell you what I think?" Arthur said. "Now we know we can't break the spell. All I'll ever be is a convict without any power, no use to anybody. I can't help your people. So you want to move on."

"What?" Merlin flinched so hard the back of his head hit the door. "Arthur, no!"

"What then? Aren't you trying to tell me you're leaving me?"

Merlin took a few shaky steps forward. His eyes turned brighter, and Arthur realised they were wet with tears.

"I don't want to leave you," he said. "Arthur, you're all I want. I think... you're all I'll ever want. All I do is for you."

"Wow. You full-on snogged that bint - for me?"

Merlin's throat made a strange sound, as if he wanted to laugh but was holding it back out of fear he'd start crying instead. He walked up to Arthur, knelt on the floor by his feet and pressed his face against Arthur's thigh.

"I never want to leave you," he muttered, wrapping his arms around Arthur's knees.

Arthur knew exactly what he was supposed to say and do. This game Merlin was playing, this blatant emotional manipulation - he'd seen it many times, he took psychology and sociology, he could analyse this behaviour to pieces. Instead he put shaking hands in Merlin's hair and stroked soothingly.

"Okay," he said in a voice that felt barely his. "Okay, I forgive you. I had it coming for kissing Gwen, I know."

"No, moron," Merlin half-laughed, half-sobbed into his leg. "You know I don't believe in revenge."

"Okay. I get it, all those girls, all the adoration goes straight to your head, and you've never had an opportunity before. This is a whole new side to your sexuality, you need to get it out of your system - Merlin, for fuck's sake, I'm rationalising it all for you. Give me an inch here, give me something."

Merlin lifted his beautiful, tear-streaked face and gave him one of his huge warm smiles, and Arthur felt the rest of his anger melt away, against his better judgement.

"I'd give you anything," Merlin told him. "I'm yours. All of me. I'll be yours forever."

Arthur hauled him in his lap and kissed him furiously, wiping away all the traces of someone else's touch. Merlin was still wearing the bracelet the girl had put on him. Arthur hooked a finger under it and tried to rip it off, but Merlin wrenched his wrist away, at the same time leaning in for another kiss.

"Take it off," Arthur growled against his lips.

"No," Merlin said and licked into his mouth. Arthur knew he should be drawing a line right there. He didn't have to take it. But he wanted Merlin so desperately, and deep down he knew he'd gladly take Merlin any way he could have him.

Arthur let him keep the bracelet on. Merlin stripped naked, fast, yanking his shirts off over his head still buttoned. He stretched on the bed, beautiful, perfect, that scrap of leather across his wrist the only mark against his glowing skin. He pulled Arthur into his arms; they kissed, rutting jerkily against each other, till Arthur ached with want all over, and couldn't pull back enough to undress to get more skin, more contact.

"I want you to fuck me," Merlin said. His mouth was swollen, an obscene shade of red. "I want your cock, I want you to fuck me till I can't breathe. I want to still feel it tomorrow, you inside me."

"Why are you still crying?" Arthur asked, thumbing tears off his cheek. Merlin laughed hoarsely, pressed his face into Arthur's neck and ruthlessly sucked a line of love bites into his skin.

"I'm just that horny," he said. "Please."

Arthur wriggled out of his jeans and shifted on the bed to mouth at Merlin's cock. It felt like an eternity since he'd last had that; he licked around the head, remembering every line there, filling his nose with familiar scent. He pressed his lips to the softest skin at the tip and lapped up the drops beading there, swallowed hungrily, wanting the taste to last.

"Arthur," Merlin whined, writhing under him, eagerly spreading his thighs. Arthur slid his fingers down and stroked over the tight little hole, feeling it quiver under his touch.

"No lube," he remembered suddenly.

"I'll magic..."

"I'll just have to lick you open," Arthur grabbed his hip and easily flipped him over. Merlin flailed a little, laughing, and then choked on a moan as Arthur spread his arse cheeks and dived in.

He wasn't wasting time on finesse. Merlin's balls were tight and heavy as Arthur rolled them in one hand; he wasn't going to last. Arthur gave him a few firm, broad licks and speared his tongue in, jabbing it deeper and deeper into warm flesh, and Merlin's body opened up to him, shamelessly easily. Merlin was grabbing at the covers, moaning and muttering some garbled nonsense. Arthur slipped a pad of his thumb into the slick ring, just to hold him open as he licked in, trying to get him sopping wet and loose, and Merlin yelled into the pillow, shaking all over.

"Want more," he panted. "Now, fuck, now."

He swatted his hand through the air and reached back, grabbing for Arthur's cock. His palm was covered in something clear and slick, body-warm as he stroked it over Arthur's shaft.

"Haha, magic lube," said Arthur breathlessly and pushed him back into the pillows.

"Made it out of water," mumbled Merlin, lifting his arse up, wriggling it toward Arthur's cock. "Made water out of air... Fuck, come on, would you just..."

Arthur stretched over his back, pinning him to the bed, and slowly dragged his cockhead over the wet mess between Merlin's arse cheeks. He let it catch on the rim and dip inside just a little. Merlin's skin was fever-hot, his eyes dark and almost senseless.

"Pendragon, I'll fucking kill you," Merlin sobbed, clawing at Arthur's arms. "Now, before I come like this."

Arthur bit down on his lip and slowly sunk all the way in. They panted against each other, keeping still, both trying not to come on the spot; Arthur was willing his dick not to twitch, that alone could set him off. Merlin was grinning like a loon, curling his fingers together with Arthur's, rubbing his toes over the top of Arthur's foot.

"Yes," he sighed. "Wanted this for so long."

Arthur kissed his temple, trailed soft kisses over his cheekbone, licked awkwardly at the corner of his lips. Their mouths wouldn't quite fit together like that, Merlin's back to Arthur's front, and their breath gusted hotly on their cheeks as they messily chased each other's tongues.

"Come on," Merlin said again, urging Arthur with a hand on his hip. Arthur pushed in, deeper into him, and then couldn't stop or even slow down anymore, slamming mindlessly into the soft slick heat. He buried his face in Merlin's hair, then kneed his legs further apart to open him wider, so he could get closer, deeper in.

"Tell me if," Arthur muttered, feeling clumsy, lust-hazed, terrified of accidentally hurting him. Merlin grunted under him, arching into every thrust, his mouth slack and quivering. He was gorgeous like that, shamelessly and selfishly lost in sensation, flushed and undone and Arthur's to do whatever he wanted with him. Shivers of pleasure were rolling up Arthur's body, making his toes curl.

"Are you close?" he asked, licking sweat off Merlin's skinny back. Merlin whined helplessly, squeezing his hand.

"I want to come inside you," Arthur panted into his ear and pounded into him harder. "You'll be all filthy with it, so wet. And then I want you to come in my mouth."

"Yes, fuck," Merlin moaned and clamped down on him, squeezing so tight Arthur could barely move. Arthur was coming before he could take another breath, spurting hotly into Merlin's body. Before he was done, Merlin slipped free, and the last string of come landed across the back of his thighs. Merlin twisted around, smearing come everywhere. Arthur dived down, sucked Merlin's cock in his mouth, deep as he could, till it was bumping at the back of his throat, and slid three fingers at once in Merlin's open, wet hole. Merlin yelled something that could have been his name, and came, bucking wildly, fucking himself on Arthur's fingers.

Arthur was still swallowing the last of it, rolling it on his tongue, when Merlin kissed him hard, pushed him down and climbed on top.

"Let's fuck all night," he said, adorably determined. "I can make you hard with magic, as many times as you can take. Just tell me when you get sore."

"I think you'll get sore first," Arthur said, palming Merlin's sharp hipbones, and stroked his fingertips over Merlin's cock just to watch it instantly harden again under his touch.

"We'll see about that."  
"I think I can be happy like this," Arthur said when they were sprawled side by side catching their breaths a few hours later. He didn't even feel tired, just loose-limbed, light, content. "I'll find something to do, I can advise you, make up strategies. Or, you know, whatever. If I'm with you, I think we'll be all right."

"It's not you, though," Merlin said, staring into the ceiling. "It's not who you're supposed to be."

"I'll adjust. You have your grand destiny, things are going to change, it's exciting times. I'll support you through that. My mum did nothing but help my dad with his career, it's a full time job if you want to do it right. Well, with you it's going to be constant overtime, because you're so clueless."

"Maybe my grand destiny is to help you," said Merlin.

"Merlin, we tried and we know we can't. We should work with what we have. Seriously, it's going to be great."

"Let's not talk about it right now," Merlin said, rolling into Arthur's arms again. "Let's just... be together."  
He woke up when Merlin shifted against him and slid off the bed. It was already getting light, and Arthur watched through his eyelashes as Merlin tiptoed around the room, gathering his clothes.

"Where are you going?" Arthur asked. Merlin winced guiltily, sat on the bed and quickly finished dressing.

"I need to do this one thing," he said mysteriously. He bent down over Arthur's pillow and gave him a slow, painfully tender kiss. Then he pulled back and just looked at him, smiling shakily, as if he was trying to memorise every single line of Arthur's face.

"I don't want you to be sad," he said. "I need you to know that I want to do this, and that I'm happy."

"Merlin," Arthur said. "You're freaking me out a little."

Merlin sighed and kissed him again.

"Sleep," he said and pressed his fingers to Arthur's forehead.  
Even in his dreams Arthur knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't claw his way back to consciousness for several hours. Finally the spell wore thin enough and he forced his eyes open, feeling groggy and nauseous with fear.

He threw his clothes on and ran out of the room, still fastening the buttons. He didn't know how to find Morgana in this castle, or even where Merlin's room was. He rushed back to the room where the priestesses saw them the other day, and found Laudine and Morgana there, going over some paperwork.

"Where is he, is he still here?" he asked without preamble. "He's going to do something stupid. We have to stop him."

"Arthur, stop flipping out," Morgana said, callously unconcerned. "He'll be back in a few days tops, you'll see."

"Where is he?"

"Emrys went to meet Nimueh and bargain with her for your sake," Laudine told him with a disapproving glance, as if she suspected he put Merlin up to it. "We told him he won't be able to find her. Her place of power is shielded by magic greater than his, by the Dark Lake itself. He won't even see the island. He'll be wading through the lake till he realises his folly, and then he'll return."

"You don't know him," Arthur said. "He's so boneheaded, he just might make it. And then he'll bargain - oh god, I know what he's going to offer her."

His legs went jelly-weak; he collapsed into the nearest chair, resisting the urge to scream in frustration.

"We have to stop him," he said again. "We need to intercept him before he gets there. Where is it?"

"Her island is in the middle of the Dark Lake," said Laudine. "Emrys is probably there already. He has travelling magic."

"It's in Cumbria," Morgana supplied. "Seriously, Arthur, relax. It's completely impossible. And even if he finds her, it's not like she can harm him. She can't, right?"

Laudine smiled at her indulgently, like a teacher at her favourite pupil.

"No, child," she said. "Now that Emrys knows the extent of his powers nobody can do anything to him, unless he allows them to."

Arthur thought back to Merlin's parting words and resolutely got up from his chair.

"Right," he said. "I'm off to Cumbria. Which lake is the dark one?"  
Merlin had left him all the money he'd made at Gwen's shelter, and his silly cashmere scarf. It was folded neatly at the foot of the bed where they'd spent the night. It was, unmistakably, a farewell gift.

Arthur shoved it into his coat pocket along with the money, and let himself fantasise about strangling Merlin with it. After he'd saved him from the evil high priestess, of course.

The women tried to stop him. He understood that they were mostly worried that he'd be arrested on the way, and spill all their secrets under interrogation. He argued, swore some ridiculous oaths, and then had a brilliant idea and went to find Sophia.

"Glamour," he said and snapped his fingers at her with petty satisfaction. "You wanted to serve Emrys, this is for him. Glamour me so the police won't see me, like your father did in Hyde Park."

"It will only keep for about two hours," she said, not even throwing a tantrum.

"Two hours will do it," he said, brandishing the train schedules Morgana reluctantly gave him. "You'll drive me to the station in your swish van. I just need to make it through the change in Crewe. Security isn't as tight in the lakes, and I need to be visible to get a taxi there, anyway. Okay, now go and clear me to leave, I think I'll yell at them if I have to talk to them again."  
He was hanging around at the gates, waiting for the priestesses to let him out, when a skinny dark-haired girl grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the shadows behind the guard tower.

"You," he said. "Did you enjoy your celebrity snog? I know, Emrys, quite a notch on your pants."

"Just listen," she said. "They think he won't make it to the island; well, he will. He convinced me - god, I don't even know how!"

"I know how, I saw you two," said Arthur sullenly. "What did you do?"

"I gave him a guiding spell," she said. "I was born on the Dark Lake, its power is in my blood. With my magic aiding his, Merlin can do it."

"Merlin, huh," Arthur said. "Not Emrys. You really like him, don't you?"

"Yes. I care about him," she said challengingly. "He asked me not to tell you any of this. He didn't want you to worry, or risk yourself trying to stop him. But I don't really care what happens to you. If you think you can help him I'll give you the power to find him even across the Dark Lake."

"Do it," he said instantly. She fished a thin strip of leather out of a pouch on her belt and paused, thinking.

"It needs to bind to your magic, but you don't have any," she said. "Do you have something of his?"

He pulled the scarf out of his pocket and handed it to her. She twisted it together with the leather string and tightly wrapped it around his wrist.

"Don't take it off till you find him," she said. "Now kiss me."

"Look," he said. "No offence. First of all, you know I'm taken. And Merlin isn't just my boyfriend, he's also my friend, so whatever it is between the two of you..."

"It's for the spell, you prick," she hissed and slung her arms around his neck.

Her lips were cool and tasted of water, slow currents, darkness. For a moment he felt like he'd drown in it, but she kept him afloat. He clung to her, drinking air from her mouth, letting his body flow against hers, falling deeper and deeper into the undertow.

"Um," he said once they surfaced together and were on solid ground again. "That was. Right. Thanks. What's your name?"

"Freya," she said. "Just keep him safe, it's all I want."  
His destination was two hundred miles due North as the crow flies. It was only a little bit further than the distance they'd covered two days ago, holding hands, carried by Merlin's travelling magic. Arthur sat in the first class car, because he thought he'd stand out more in standard, and stared down at Merlin's scarf wrapped around his wrist.

He knew he was hours too late. But he wasn't going to panic and think the worst, not till he saw Merlin's body with his own eyes.

He had to change trains; he stood on the platform, waiting, and not a single eye lingered on him. Men and women looked right through him, and nobody, from teenage girls to well-groomed middle aged businessmen, showed a spark of interest or appreciation, or even acknowledged his existence. He was invisible, immaterial to everyone, he was a ghost.

Then he was on the other train, watching as the trees blurred past and rows of red brick houses were left behind, replaced by picturesque grey slate buildings. As they passed towns, he watched people bustle about, moving between shops and coffee houses, and once again felt that none of it was real, just a picture on the glass of the window. It was all insubstantial, just as he was; the only real thing in his mind was the faraway dark lake and the invisible island on it, and stupid brave Merlin bargaining his life away.

He got a taxi from the railway station and made the driver slowly circle the right lake by the serpentine road. There were several islands, just small clumps of land rising from the water, crowded by lush trees. The trees were too big for the islands, overhanging them in all directions, their branches spread over the lake's surface.

He felt the binding on his wrist tighten and called out for the driver to stop.

"There's nothing here," the man said. "Two miles to the next pub."

"It's okay, my boyfriend is waiting for me here, we're," he almost laughed at the ridiculousness of his lines. "We're going to have a secluded picnic."

He got out and cut straight to the water, sliding off the steep hillside, staining his clothes with grass and mud. The driver was still watching him from the window, not setting off; he probably suspected Arthur was planning to top himself. Arthur waved at him reassuringly and scaled down, grabbing at stones and tree roots, and soon could no longer see the road and the car.

At the water's edge he took off his shoes and his coat and stuck them in low tree branches. The lake wasn't that wide; he could easily swim across. He waded in, slipping on the mud and sharp stones. The water was less chilly than he'd expected, but still made his breath catch in his lungs. He aimed at the centre of the lake and swam, as fast as he could, hoping to keep himself warm.

The lake was almost still. He felt no undercurrents, only tiny wind ripples splashing at his face as he moved further into the open water. His jeans were dragging him back, but he couldn't lose them because he was still going commando and didn't want to shake his cold-shrunken cock at the evil priestess. He swam, putting all his strength into every stroke, till the ache in his arms felt like comforting warmth.

It was impossibly quiet. The lake sat between the mountains, and every sound should be echoing in this bowl, every passing car should be heard for miles. But all he could hear was water splashing against his skin, and his own heavy breathing. When he slowed down to check his direction, he couldn't see the road. He knew where it was supposed to be, it crossed the side of the mountain in several places, but it just wasn't there anymore. The water around him was dark, black when he looked down, painting his arms under the surface in ghostly blue-green hues.

He was now in the centre of the lake, far from the other islands, in the middle of a long stretch of empty water. He did a slow wide circle, trying to notice some pattern in the shape of the small waves, in the light and shadows dancing on the lake's surface. Anything that could tell him where the hidden island might be.

His teeth had already started rattling in his mouth, but he still had plenty of time before he'd get too cold to keep himself afloat. Merlin's scarf on his wrist was now a heavy soggy clump, the ends of it trailed in the water, about to unravel. Arthur brought it to his mouth and tightened the sodden knots with his teeth. The lake water left a warm, bitter taste on his tongue, nothing like Freya's lips. But as he swallowed it, suddenly thirsty, he heard something. It was the same ethereal whisper, like the sound of waves breaking on a shore, that had flitted through his head as she kissed him.

He twisted around, and a wet tree branch slapped him across the face. He was near the island, treading water just yards from solid ground. He lunged for it, afraid that it might disappear again, and stepped under the trees.

His legs were numb and lead-heavy, but he didn't have to walk far. The island was tiny, thirty yards across, if that. Its edge was circled by a line of small young trees, and in the middle of it stood an old, tall oak. The green canopy of its branches spread over most of the island, shutting out rain and sunlight. The ground under them was dry and bare. There was no grass, only the gnarled roots of the great tree worming in and out of the ground. Under the tree stood a woman in a tattered red dress. She was stroking the bark with her white hands, whispering spells into it.

"Hello, Arthur," she said as he approached. Her eyes, when she smiled at him, were a shocking shade of blue. "My, how you've grown."


	15. Power to be Powerful

Merlin was inside the tree.

Arthur stared at it, unable to comprehend how he could be awake and yet in the middle of an _Alien_ -esque nightmare. Merlin was naked. His clothes were right there, on the ground, carelessly discarded between the tree roots. He was submerged deep into the trunk of the great oak, as though he was drowning in solid wood. Two thirds of his body was below the surface; his face was clear, calm and still. The bark was spreading over his skin in uneven waves, growing over him, trying to engulf the rest of his body.

He was alive. Arthur could see that he was breathing. On every inhale his chest brushed against the line of bark that was curling over his breastbone. He could even see slight red marks on Merlin's skin where the wood pressed too tight.

"Let him go," Arthur said. "It's me you want."

"Not really," said Nimueh. "You're of little consequence. I only wanted your father to suffer as I did when he tormented my family."

"You killed my mother," he said. "We can never be even, no matter how much we hurt each other. We'll only have more to avenge."

He'd wanted her dead since he was a little boy, and now that he saw her he was terrified of her. He could feel angry power rolling off her in ragged pulses, and he knew she could literally turn him inside out with one twitch of her finger.

He took an unsteady step toward her. Lake water was dripping off him, streaming from his hair and down his cheeks like tears. He wiped his face with his wet sleeve, making it even worse.

"Please," he said. "Don't kill him."

"I couldn't kill him even if he let me," she said. "He's only asleep. He's not in pain, he's at peace."

She touched her hand to the edge of the bark and it moved, stretched half an inch further, curling over Merlin's bony shoulder.

"He offered this freely, he wanted to do this," she said, not looking at Arthur, as if she was talking to herself. "All his power, his great destiny, and he offered to throw it all away for a child of our enemy. He's too soft for this war. We can't rely on him to do what's right, and he's too powerful and stubborn to be controlled. We're better off without him. And it's better for him, too. It's a mercy to let him rest here, to be one with the green, forever free from his burden."

"No," Arthur said. "That's not what he wants."

"Go home, Arthur," she said, placing her hands on the oak again. "The bargain has been struck, and both sides have fulfilled their obligations. Emrys let me bind him, and I've released you from the spell. You will no longer be pursued by your father's laws. I swore to Emrys I won't harm you again. You're safe now. Return to your life and forget any of this ever happened."

"I won't forget," he said, and she shook her head bitterly.

"You are your father's son."

"No, listen. I'll go home, and I'm going to persuade my father to stop the war. Starting with the Anti-Magic Acts, we're going to roll back all the legislation against your people, and we're going to work out how we can live together in peace."

She laughed, barely listening.

"I know exactly what to do," he pressed on, talking fast. "If he doesn't listen, I'll go to the opposition. They're dedicated to civil rights, and they just might win the next election if they play it right. Working the magic angle can give them the push they need. But this is the last resort, because if the government changes, there will be an inquiry that will bury my father. He might be branded a war criminal. I don't want that. So I don't promise you justice, and I don't promise an amnesty for people like Muirden or you. But I promise I won't stop till I die or things change for the better."

"And in return?" she asked, looking bored.

"Nothing. This needs to be done. I don't want civil war in my country, and I want laws we can believe in, and I don't want my people to suffer. If you keep Merlin in this tree, I'm still doing it. But with him out there we'll get results a lot faster and more easily. I need him."

He needed Merlin desperately, he'd only just truly realised that: to stay sane through all of this, not to turn into his father. He couldn't imagine happiness without Merlin's smile, but that wasn't what Nimueh needed to hear. She stared at him, mildly curious, as if he was an amusing insect. But at least she was listening, and he continued.

"Nimueh, when I say faster and easier results, I'm not talking about man-hours and budgets. It's human lives. It's years of people's childhoods. We have to do it fast, and we need a truce. We need the magic community to meet us half-way on everything, and we need a leader your people can trust."

"And you think that's him," she snorted.

"Obviously! He's Emrys! We're just from the Wales headquarters, and they adore him there. I had to beat his groupies off with a stick. Laudine thinks he's the future. He's turned the men's prison into a sanctuary, and they don't sneeze without his say so. Why do you think I'm still alive? And they love him, too. Aglain supports him, Tauren listens to him, I think Muirden still carries a torch for him. Aulfric just sent his psycho daughter to kiss Merlin's ring. I heard some old ones don't like him, and I don't know how many of them there are, except you. We've met Cornelius, and Merlin ripped his incorporeal arse to shreds, so that's minus one. But everyone else..."

"Are you saying," she said slowly, her face lighting up as if all his words just started to get through to her. "That Emrys has the fealty of all my people?"

"Yes!"

She turned to the tree and looked into Merlin's still face.

"I guess we do have a use for you," she said and sharply waved her hand, uttering a spell.

The tree trunk split wide, as if struck by lightning, and Merlin's limp body tumbled out onto the tangled roots. Arthur lunged forward to catch him; Merlin was warm against his own chilled skin, and he was already stirring, struggling to open his eyes.

Nimueh knelt next to them and touched her fingers to Merlin's naked knee.

"Emrys," she said. "I pledge myself and mine to you. You have our loyalty."

And a second later, while he rubbed Merlin's hands, trying to wake him up, she was gone.

Merlin finally blinked awake and looked up at him.

"You look the same," he slurred, still out of it. "You're so beautiful, I almost forgot. Why haven't you aged? How long was I in there?"

"Couple of hours," Arthur said, and Merlin jerked out of his arms, trying to get up.

"What have you done," he muttered. "We had a deal..."

"Deal stands," Arthur said and cradled Merlin against his chest again. "She undid the spell, you let her stick you in a shrubbery. Then she freed you, it's a different story altogether."

"Why did she?"

"I asked her to."

"Arthur," said Merlin and grabbed his shoulder, digging his fingers in. "Tell me what you paid for this."

"Nothing! I simply told her that you're awesome. Hyped it up, obviously. And that the world is a better, much funnier place with you in it."

Merlin took a stunned breath, shaking his head.

"Hang on," he said. "She was here, right? I thought I heard... Did she just pledge loyalty to me?"

"Yeah. I think hers and all her friends'. I told her you have fealty of all your people, I guess she didn't want to feel left out."

Merlin groaned and pressed his forehead to Arthur's wet shirt.

"So I'm like the king of all the magic people now. Fuck," he said miserably. "Cheers for that, mate. Now they'll want me to... do stuff..."

"I know, it's hard for a dork like you to suddenly be popular," Arthur said, stroking teasing lines down Merlin's naked back, to the top of his arse. "Don't worry. I'll teach you how to bear this burden."

"Yeah. It will only hurt for a bit," said Merlin rather randomly. Then he wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders and kissed him for a long, long time.

"You didn't really want to sleep in the tree, right?" Arthur asked when their lips parted.

"No," said Merlin, grinning, and nipped playfully at his lower lip. "I think you know what I really want."

He pushed Arthur down, flat on the uneven ground, and kissed him deeply, slowly stroking his tongue in. Arthur clung to his warmth, took his pretty face in his hands to trace every line, revel in him. Merlin's scarf was still on his wrist, bunched up and dripping. The end of it stuck wetly to Merlin's cheek, and Merlin pulled on it, amused, examining the leather string twisted in it. Arthur expected him to say something about Freya, but Merlin just smiled and kissed him again.

"Let's get you out of these wet clothes," he said cheesily, and abruptly Arthur was naked, free from all the clammy fabric. He gratefully pressed against Merlin's smooth skin with every inch of his body.

"I'm really angry at you," he said between kisses.

"Ooh, angry sex!" purred Merlin, rubbing their chests together.

"I'm serious. You need to stop lying to me. You have to stop withholding information and going off on these stupid quests. We're together. We do things together. Is that understood?"

Merlin stopped and pushed up on his arms. That made wiry muscles on his shoulders bunch up sexily, but Arthur manfully resisted diving in to lick them.

"It won't be easy," Merlin said. "I learned to lie before I learned to talk."

"I know. I know and I'm sorry," he said, stroking his thumb over the lush curve of Merlin's lips. "But it needs to change."

"Okay," said Merlin. "It won't be right away, but – yes."

They were rocking together, grinding slowly against each other; a tree root was digging into Arthur's left shoulder-blade, and he didn't care. Merlin's long body was sliding easily over his, Merlin's mouth laving his neck, his throat, sliding down to lick at his nipples. Suddenly Merlin pushed up again and looked around.

"We probably shouldn't do this here," he said uncertainly.

"We should," Arthur panted, tugging him down. "We should, come on."

He spread his legs and lifted his hips, begging for it, wanting to be taken, wanting Merlin under his skin. Merlin's fingers, suddenly slick, pushed into him, teasing inside, and he bore down on them, gasping for air. He wanted it harder and faster and couldn't wait. He wrapped his legs around Merlin's thin waist, crossed his ankles over his arse and pulled him in, and Merlin relented, pushed inside, huge and burning and perfect, and Arthur sobbed in delight, rocking into it.

Merlin's eyes were glowing gold, just like when Arthur first saw him, and now it didn't look freaky. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, everything about him, the curves of his ears and the lines of his chin, and Arthur was going to kiss all of it later. Merlin's cock pushed into him smoothly, going so deep he could barely breathe, the longest cock he'd ever taken, and he laughed, stupidly proud and happy, and braced his arms on the ground to push against Merlin, take him in even deeper.

Waves of golden heat rolled under his skin, tingling in his fingertips, his toes, his balls. The heat curled over his cock, where it bounced against his stomach on every thrust. It was a sensation like no other, not like a hand, not like a mouth, something different and amazing. Tendrils of it were worming between their bodies, curling into his stretched arsehole, flowing over Merlin's cock as he pushed in, in.

"You haven't... last night... there was no magic," Arthur panted out, stunned by the sudden sharpness magic gave to every touch.

"No, I wanted you, to remember you," mumbled Merlin, kissing his Adam's apple. "It's just happening. Should I stop?"

"No," Arthur said, clutching at his shoulders like a drowning man. "Fuck. More."

And there was more, more than his mind could process, and then he lay there, shaken and weak and awed, while Merlin still fucked him, slowly and deeply, arching his neck and baring his teeth, shivering with pleasure against Arthur's skin.

"Never leave me again," Arthur said, and Merlin came with a sharp cry, his hips slamming against Arthur's arse in stuttering jerks.

The magic quieted, curled back into Merlin. Arthur could feel it roll and move somewhere between them, settling into its usual steady flow. They lay together, staring up into the green oak canopy. Last wisps of power rolled off Arthur's fingers, ticklish like streams of sand, and melted into Merlin's skin.

He kept hearing whispers and quiet laughter somewhere close. Someone splashed in the waves just outside the shadow of the branches. He turned his head and saw a glimpse of the grey sleek skin of some sea creature - a huge fish, or maybe a sea lion. He wasn't sure if sea lions lived in lakes. The grey thing flipped around in the water, glanced at him with curious blue eyes, giggled and dived down.

The sky darkened overhead, covered by heavy clouds, and now he could see small lights hiding shyly between the oak leaves. They were silver and fluffy, and they made sweet, delicate sounds and they chased each other and twirled together around the thinner branches. Arthur was following them with his eyes when he saw a glimpse of a huge bird gliding through the sky above them. It had angular wings, a heavy large head and a long wide tail that narrowed to a point. He watched it circle the island, weaving in and out of sight as the wind moved the leaves of the great oak. The bird twisted in the air, performing a perfect barrel roll, and he saw four clawed paws hanging under its belly.

"Merlin," he said, breathless with childish delight. "I don't think we're in Cumbria any more."

It's okay," Merlin said. "I'll get us back."  
They walked across the lake. The surface gave under their feet slightly, shuddering in wobbly waves like an endless water-bed. Arthur tried bouncing on it, and Merlin squeezed his hand tighter in distress and whined about complicated spells and extreme concentration.

They walked for some time, skipping through space occasionally. Arthur had no idea where they were, and didn't really care. He barely looked around, content to watch the play of sunlight on Merlin's skin.

Eventually they stopped. They were on a country road with a single-lane angling to the left, a sign promising a village there in just a mile and a half, and a bus stop sign not far from it.

"Right," Merlin said. "I guess we should, uh. Go home."

"Yeah," Arthur said.

They shuffled on the spot, and then reached for each other at the same time. The kiss was short and awkward; they both pressed too hard, almost bruising each other's lips, and pulled apart abruptly. There was a mute, heavy ache behind Arthur's breastbone; he breathed in, filling his lungs up, and said:

"I'll see you in a few days. You know I'll come and see you, right?"

"Yes, Arthur," Merlin said. "You've just pulled me out of a tree in the middle of a lake on a mystic plane of existence. I believe you'll visit me in prison."

"Damn right. I just need to get the clearance to walk through the perimeter. Hopefully right now my father will be so happy to see me alive and un-framed that he'll give me whatever I ask for."

"Like clearance to go back there after you barely escaped with your life," said Merlin sceptically.

"Yes. And maybe even a pony. I'll let you pet it."

Merlin smiled and kissed the tip of his nose.

"I can leave the Facility now if I need to," he said. "The girls in Wales told me the guys are staying put like I asked them to. So maybe I could come and see you sometimes, if we're careful."

"Yeah!" Arthur cheered up and dug through his pockets for his used train ticket. "We need to find a pen, I'll give you my address..."

"Arthur, please. I don't need your address," Merlin said smugly. "I have you all over my skin. I can find you anywhere."

"You'll probably need to shower at some point."

"I'll still have you all over me," Merlin said and lowered his eyes, blushing.

They stood together at the side of the road, toeing at the edge of the grass. Arthur struggled for more things to say, something light, nothing that would make them crumple into an emotional mess. Just something neutral to drag out the conversation, so they'd have a few more minutes together.

"Why are we doing this here, anyway?" he asked. "It's such a random spot."

"Well, my place is over there," Merlin gestured vaguely eastward. "London is that way, and here's a bus stop for you..."

"Merlin, you know perfectly well how I feel about buses."

"Okay," agreed Merlin easily, perking up. "I'll walk you to a railway station. No clue where the nearest one is, but we're bound to find one eventually, right? Let's go that way."

He reached for Arthur's hand again. Their palms and fingers fit easily and comfortably together. Arthur was going to miss this, Merlin's hand in his, maybe even more than he'd miss having sex with him while they'd be apart. They weren't even doing this because it was romantic or anything like that, it was just so Merlin could pull him along with his travelling magic...

Merlin stopped and tugged sharply on his wrist. He was staring at nothing in particular, tilting his head, trying to catch some sound beyond Arthur's perception.

"Arthur," he said. "I don't want you to panic."

"There they are! There!" cried a shrill, high voice.

Someone appeared at the bend of the road; it was a boy of about eleven, in baggy jeans and a green hoodie. He waved to someone behind him, and turned toward them.

It was Mordred, and he looked just like a kid should, normal, bouncy, excited. Arthur's signet ring hung on his chest over his hoodie, threaded on a piece of string.

"Hey!" yelled Arthur joyfully and stepped toward him. Merlin yanked his arm, forcing him to stop. Several armed men in body armour jumped out on the road and hastily pulled Mordred back. Few more were behind them, setting up a defensive formation, herding Mordred behind their transparent riot shields.

A rustle came from the bushes to the left. More soldiers were there, taking cover, surrounding them. An engine roared from behind, and an armoured car pulled up and screeched on the road, and turned sharply sideways to block their escape.

"They're warlocks!" yelled Mordred from behind the soldiers' backs, pointing at Merlin and Arthur. His little face was white with fury, his lips twisting and shaking. "They're warlocks, I saw them!"

A blond woman in civilian clothes had her arms around Mordred's shoulders, soothing him in a motherly gesture. Merlin was staring at her, his face frozen, his mouth moving a little, as if he was whispering something inaudible.

"I told you they'd be here!" Mordred screamed. "Warlocks! Warlocks!"

The soldiers were exchanging hand signs, strafing around them. Arthur was about to yell something, explain the situation, negotiate, and then the tranq darts were fired. Merlin's hand whipped through the air, and the darts scattered on the ground, yards off-target.

"Deadly force," ordered one of the men into the sudden pause, and then there were metallic sounds as they all cocked their guns, so many, dozens of them, all around them.

"Yes, shoot them!" screamed Mordred, shaking against the woman. He was crying, bawling openly, and he wouldn't take his eyes off Arthur's face.

"No!" cried the woman, hushing him with a gentle touch to his hair. "This boy, that's Arthur Pendragon! He's Uther Pendragon's son, he's been missing - "

"Yes!" yelled Merlin and threw himself at Arthur, hugging him protectively. "He's my hostage, don't shoot!"

"Human shield goes in front, you moron," hissed Arthur and tried to subtly manoeuvre them into a more believable position. The soldiers wavered, exchanging more signs; one of them got on the radio and started muttering into it, glancing at the armoured car. "What's going on? Who's she? Why does Mordred want you dead?"

"Not me," Merlin whispered. "You. He's angry I left him - it's okay, I won't let anything happen to you. She's been sent by Nimueh, she's..."

He trailed off, breathing heavily against Arthur's cheek.

"Why like this?" he suddenly wailed dramatically, making Arthur jump. "I'll do it, I don't mind, just not like this, please!"

"Hang on, they've not told you to surrender yet," Arthur told him quietly. "Don't overdo it. Do you have a plan?"

"Yeah, yeah," whispered Merlin, clinging to him tight. "Yeah, I have. It'll be all right."

He looked at the woman again, drew a sharp breath and nodded. He looked scared, Arthur thought. It was not a good look for him: it made his face look skinnier, so his eyes overwhelmed it completely. He was still clutching Arthur to himself in that misjudged clumsy hug; it was uncomfortable, and he was gripping Arthur's arm too tight, pinching the skin.

"Listen," he said into Arthur's ear. "I can't get us both away, not with all of them here, it's too hard. I'm going to leave you with the soldiers and escape by myself. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Arthur said. It sounded sensible. He should be cleared of the charges against him; he'd be detained for a bit, and then Uther would come and get him. Mordred wouldn't try anything else while he was in custody. After all, Arthur could get him arrested just as easily, if he wanted to be that vindictive to a poor confused kid.

"I have to do this really difficult spell," Merlin said. "Emrys-only stuff. You need to get away so you don't get clipped."

"Okay, we'll pretend you're releasing me. Just don't dawdle, they might get jumpy."

"Yeah. Just remember, Arthur, please, remember, this is only for a few days. Whatever happens, remember that I'll see you in a few days. I promise. You believe me, right?"

"Yes," Arthur said impatiently. It was getting awkward: armed people were staring while they snuggled and exchanged clandestine whispers.

"I'm releasing the hostage, don't shoot!" Merlin yelled and dropped his arms. Arthur winked at him, put his hands up in surrender and slowly walked toward the soldiers. They pulled him behind the shields, put him flat on the ground face down and cuffed him with practised efficiency. He pillowed his cheek on the dusty roadside grass and turned his face to Merlin to watch his cool Emrys-only spell.

Merlin, of course, was dawdling, because he was daft like that. He just stood there, his neck sticking out of his giant parka, his ears backlit by the sun and glowing pink. He stared into the ground, leisurely taking deep breaths.

"Okay," he said finally, and still didn't move.

The woman moved, though. Arthur could just about see her from where he was lying, and he saw her extend a hand toward the soldier standing in front of her. Her dark eyes briefly glowed red. The man's back was turned, he was concentrating on watching Merlin through his gun sight. Arthur was going to yell out a warning. But he still didn't understand her agenda, and he didn't want to risk spooking thirty men who were aiming guns at his boyfriend with safety catches off. So he hesitated for half a second, and the man's gun muzzle spat fire.

There'd been no order to shoot yet, and the leader yelled to hold fire right away, waving his arms sharply; the man who'd fired dropped the gun and stared down at it as if it'd bitten him. It was all a blur, and in the middle of it was Merlin who stumbled backwards and fell over, lanky and uncoordinated as usual, and stayed down.

And then Arthur started screaming.

He tried to get up, he tried to form words. The men held him down and he kicked at them furiously, blindly. He dug his knees and shoulders into the ground and tore at his cuffs, trying to get just an inch closer to Merlin. He could do something, he was sure, he could help him.

All the soldiers were converging on him, and he could barely see Merlin now, just glimpses in the spaces between their boots. He thought he saw Mordred and the woman kneeling at Merlin's side, their hands bright red. He kept hearing their voices, though he couldn't possibly, he could barely hear the soldiers yelling something right in his face.

"The Ritual of a Sacred King will turn the tide of the war," the woman was saying, and there was Mordred's little voice woven alongside hers, right inside Arthur's head, and he couldn't shut it out.

"This isn't over," Mordred was saying, again and again. "This isn't over, I won't forgive you."

"Fuck it, just tranq him," said someone above Arthur and then it was finally quiet.  
They tried questioning him when he came around, but he still couldn't focus enough to speak. In the end they gave him some water and left him alone in the interrogation room, cuffed to the metal table.

He'd been crying for the last couple of hours, on and off. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really cried, probably because he'd been too young to remember. For the first few painful minutes he'd struggled to hold it back; tears burned at the back of his eyes like pepper spray, and his throat was clamped so tightly he thought he'd pass out from lack of air. Then he gave up and let go, and the relief was unbelievable. He dropped his head on the table and cried his fill, letting tears and snot run down his face and puddle on the metal surface. He was loud, sobbing shamelessly and letting out every pathetic whine that clawed at the back of his throat. They could be listening, could be watching him through the mirror, could be recording this; he didn't care.

He felt lighter now, it was getting easier to breathe. But he kept crying, and didn't even try to stop himself. He was going to let it happen till his tears ran dry.

He barely noticed when his father came into the room, and couldn't stop crying even in front of him. Uther uncuffed him and pulled him into a hug. It felt weird, but good. Arthur stared at the fine herringbone of Uther's jacket, blurred from being just inches from his eyes, and unabashedly dripped tears right onto it, and sobbed into his father's shoulder.

"It's all right, son, it's all over," Uther said, holding him tight.

"It's not over," Arthur muttered, and just like that, the tears ended.

He went to the sink in the corner and washed his face. Uther offered him a handkerchief, and Arthur dried himself with it.

"The charges?" he asked.

"You're a free man, Arthur. I'm taking you home. I still don't understand how..."

"It was Nimueh who framed me. Yesterday we found her, and Merlin forced her to undo the spell."

"Did he kill her?" Uther asked, suddenly hopeful, and it was so out of place that Arthur nearly laughed.

"We have more pressing matters to address right now, don't you think, Father?" he said. "Merlin was their leader. All those mass murderers, ancient mystics and former terrorists, they all followed that - that silly, floppy-eared pacifist. You knew that. You just preferred not to believe it, because you had no clue how to control him. But he had only one agenda: to prevent bloodshed. He kept us safe from them, just because he was soft like that. They grumbled, but they all loved him. And now he's been shot trying to save me. Me. Your son. Do you know what's going to happen? Do you know what they'll do to us now?"

He saw a shadow of fear in his father's eyes, flitting there just for a moment before he regained his composure. But that was enough, Arthur knew he had the right strategy. He didn't even have to twist the truth all that much.

"It was an accident," Uther said. "The gun misfired."

"Do you think that will make any difference to them? Oh, and there is more. I learned a lot in there. The Facility is just a tiny sliver of what they are. They have - networks. Secret headquarters. Active temples. Sympathisers everywhere. They can use all that for their revenge. They're ready to take the war to us, they've only been holding back because Merlin thought we could still negotiate and come to a truce. He was willing to open a dialogue, he asked me to help with that... Oh, and you know what else? Do you know how powerful he really was?"

"Yes," Uther said grimly.

"Well, listen. They have this spell. When their leader dies, the one they've all been loyal to, they can do the Ritual of a Sacred King. It..."

He wasn't sure what it really was, but he knew what would make an impact.

"They harvested his magic," he said. "All that power is now in their hands."

Uther stared at him, and his face was frozen apart from a nerve jumping in his cheek. He sat heavily in the only chair and absently fingered the empty cuffs. His sleeves were smearing the wet streaks on the table.

"We must strike first," he said.

"Absolutely," Arthur agreed. "We have to move immediately. The tide of the war is going to turn now, and we can only survive it if we control it."

He braced his arms on the table and leaned over Uther, gathering all his power of persuasion.

"We need to go to them," he said. "Now. Today, tomorrow, as soon as possible. Hours probably count. And we need to make them an offer. It will be in honour of Merlin's memory, because we're really sorry. Not because we're afraid. We need to placate them and get them to consider a temporary truce, so we can buy some time. From what I've learned in there I believe that, as an opening offer, abolishing Sections Forty Four and Fifty Eight might do it."

He knew he didn't have to elaborate: the Anti-Magic Acts were Uther's holy book, he could recite them all by heart, he had written the bulk of the legislation. It was his life's work. Suddenly Arthur realised that this ruse was ridiculous, Uther was never going to buy it. He'd never give the warlocks an inch. He was too proud, and he hated magic too much; he would rather fight warlocks with nuclear weapons in his own country than roll back the laws he'd himself created.

"I see," Uther said. "That would split them. Those who want to avenge Merlin would be seen as betraying all he stood for."

Arthur nodded. Somehow it was easy to talk about it: Merlin's death, Merlin's memory. He could use it as a bargaining chip in these negotiations and not even flinch. It was only going to be for a few days, after all.

That thought took hold almost as soon as he woke up from the drug. It was utterly insane, denial at its purest, and he embraced it wholeheartedly. Merlin had said it would only be a few days, he'd promised. Of course, Merlin was a filthy liar, and he'd lied to Arthur's face hours after he'd promised to be honest with him. In hindsight it was obvious that Merlin had guessed Nimueh's intention to sacrifice him for the ritual, he'd known as soon as he fell out of that tree. He said nothing then, and kept quiet till it was already happening, lied to the very last moment. His promises couldn't be trusted. But Arthur wouldn't let facts distract him from the important part: this was only for a few days. He just needed to hold on for that long, and do what needed to be done.

"Clever," Uther said. "The Anti-Magic Acts are pointless now, of course. They've figured out how to abuse them. These laws were supposed to serve as our weapons, so we could cut through red tape and liberal nonsense. But when you were framed all that power was turned against us. I couldn't keep you safe. My own laws stripped you of your rights, of all the privileges and protection you should have had."

"Yes, that, what you said," Arthur nodded again, a little stunned.

"We'll go with your plan. We'll feed them the Acts, section by section, to keep them placid. In the meantime we need to identify the key players who could take Merlin's place in policing the extremists. The power gap needs to be closed swiftly."

"I've met some people who could swing that," Arthur said carefully, still not sure this was actually happening. "But they'll want something in return. Maybe we could consider pulling guards out of women's prison, put them on remote operation as well. They do like that bit of freedom."

Uther kept nodding thoughtfully, and he was listening, he was agreeing. Arthur couldn't have hoped it would be so easy.

"I've learnt my lesson the cruellest way a father could," Uther said. "All I ever wanted was to keep you safe, and my own actions made you their target. We'll do it differently now."

He got up and abruptly pulled Arthur into another hug.

"Let's go home, son," he said.  
It was a painfully bright day outside. Everything looked sharp, in perfect focus, different. Even the air in his lungs felt unusually harsh and fresh. Arthur felt stripped of his skin, raw, a new man in a new world. It must have been all the crying, or just the subdued shock he was slowly riding out.

He stared out of the car window, learning everything again - the colour of the sky, the rhythm of his own breath. He imagined himself enclosed in a small bubble of fragile, imaginary peace, and held himself still, inside and out, to keep it all from shattering.

"You got attached to him," Uther said. "This will be a difficult time for you."

"I'm in love with him," Arthur said.

It was out, he'd said it. The words sang through his mind, true and beautiful, and didn't even feel tainted by pain.

"Well," Uther said uncomfortably. He didn't seem surprised. "After everything you've been through, a certain level of sexual confusion is not unexpected."

"I'm not confused," Arthur said. "I don't want to argue about this now."

"It's a textbook reaction to the situation you've been in. Merlin showed you some kindness when you could expect none. Your affection is a perfectly natural psychological response. It's a defence mechanism."

"I'm aware of that phenomenon, yes."

"But you're right. There's no point arguing about it now. It's real to you, and I know how it feels."

Even he looked different, Arthur decided, staring at his father with a wobbly grateful smile. He looked older, his face grey with fatigue, deeply lined. And yet, at the same time, he looked more like his younger self, the man Arthur only knew from old pictures. The one who smiled kindly from the press photos, and wore a silly face-splitting grin on the candid ones, and held his wife's hand in an awkwardly gentle grip, even twelve years into their marriage.

"We can stop by the morgue, if you want to say good-bye," Uther said, and Arthur shook his head vehemently, gritting his teeth. He couldn't. If he saw the body he couldn't maintain his delusion that this was all transitory, just for a few days, and then the world would shift on its axis and somehow give Merlin back to him. And he needed that. He had to stay calm, he had work to do.

"You need closure," Uther insisted gently. Arthur thought that was rich coming from the man who kept dozens of his wife's photos in his study and never visited her grave. But he knew better than to bring that up.

"I'll be fine in a few days," he said, and believed it.  
In a few days they stood together at the gates of the Facility, exactly like they had only two weeks ago, and Arthur didn't feel fine at all.

"You don't need to be here," Uther said.

"I do," Arthur said. He'd promised Merlin he'd broker the peace talks, and here he was, on a diplomatic mission, albeit not in any official capacity. He was prepared, he was wearing a very nice suit and a power tie and he had copies of all the documents in his briefcase, in carefully colour-coded folders. He was going to focus on that, not on the memories of this place. "I know them better than you do now, you need me here."

The gates opened with the familiar screeching groan, and the soldiers wheeled in the food vats. The prison yard behind the gates looked somehow different than Arthur remembered. But a lot of things had looked eerily changed to him in the last few days, especially now that insomnia was starting to fuck with his head. He was getting used to it.

"So this is just talks about talks," said Uther to him, even though they'd already discussed it. He was unusually talkative when nervous. "We're going to establish intention, nothing more."

Muirden and Tauren unhurriedly approached the gates. Arthur gave them a short nod and waited for Muirden to say something hilarious about him crawling back for more.

"I'm afraid I bring sad news," Uther said. "I don't know if you've heard, but there's been a terrible accident. Merlin's been shot during an arrest. I know he meant a lot to all of you, and I'm sorry."

Muirden thrust his hands into his coat pockets and laughed.

"Yes, you loved him like a father, didn't you," he said.

"I want to talk," said Uther.

"You had your chance to talk to us," said Tauren. "Arthur, would you come in?"

Arthur nodded and headed for the ramp. He felt as light and empty as he had a few days ago when he'd just stopped crying, like he could float through air, nothing weighing him down. Uther grabbed his arm, and Arthur firmly moved his hands away.

"It's all right, father," he said. "It's all unofficial for now, they might as well talk to me. If I'm not out in an hour, I'll call you."

He could be dead in an hour, but he felt absolutely no fear. He even had a crazy fleeting thought that maybe this was what Merlin had meant when he said that in a few days they'd be together. Arthur walked in, watching the warlocks converge in the yard to meet him. The gates slammed shut behind him, and he stopped and unbuckled his briefcase.

"Before you do anything, hear me out," he said, digging through the papers, and nearly dropped them all when he saw Morgana standing next to him.

"Arthur, my god," she grabbed his chin to stare him in the eyes. "When did you last sleep?"

"In Wales," he said. "Why are you here?"

"For the vigil," she said. "Come on."

She dragged him to the cell block, past the others. People nodded and smiled at him in greeting, and he worried that he was beginning to hallucinate. He thought he was handling his insomnia pretty well, but maybe it was time to ask some druid for a dreamless sleep spell.

"They're weirdly friendly," he said louder than he meant to. "I've not even told them yet why I'm here..."

Aglain caught up with them and bowed to him slightly.

"You'll always be welcome here, Arthur," he said. "You joined with Emrys at one of our holiest sites."

"Oh, did you really?" yelped Morgana. "That's so sweet!"

"Yeah, we shagged on that island, " said Arthur numbly. "So what, are we like, druid married now?"

"Well, it's not really binding," said Morgana and pulled him through the doors.

The cell block was sparkling clean inside, and there was an enormous mandala-like symbol painted on the floor, colourful and elaborate, taking up all of the stair well. The walls were fresh cornflower blue. The broken cell doors were gone, and so were the bars. The cells were now a row of neat walled up rooms with solid doors.

"What's going on here?" he asked, stopping forcefully.

"Before Merlin left, he asked us to tidy up the place," said Tauren. "The young ones were quite enthusiastic. It's especially fitting now - this is a new lease of life for everyone. The Ritual of a Sacred King was a success. New power flows through the land, and the world is changing. We have been blessed."

"We all feel it," said Aglain, beaming brightly. "Our magic has been replenished by Emrys's sacrifice. Everything that had been bestowed upon him has now been returned to us tenfold, spread amongst all children of the Old Religion. He's fulfilled his destiny beyond any of our expectations. Everything has been infused with his magic, transformed and renewed. Even our enemies have been changed by this. Uther Pendragon wants to bargain with us - is that not a definite sign that the tide has turned?"

Arthur leaned on the railing, hugging his briefcase to his chest. It was all suddenly becoming too real, the truth that Merlin was gone crashing through his defences, and he wasn't ready yet. Everyone was looking at him with a happy grin, even Morgana, like none of them cared at all. Like having this shiny magic rainbow suddenly light up over them was an adequate pay-off for what had happened.

"I wasn't going to blame any of you," he said. "I know it was Nimueh who arranged that whole ritual thing. And it was me who gave her that dumb idea in the first place. And I'll find Mordred and that blond chick, whoever she is. But, you know, since I'm trying to fight for your rights here, do me a favour. Glad as I am that the death of my boyfriend is a source of such joy for you all, please stop fucking smiling in my face."

They all drew back and looked on him in sudden dismay.

"Didn't he tell you?" Morgana asked. "Arthur, he's immortal."  
He hadn't dared to really think about it, because the hope was too flimsy and irrational, and wouldn't stand any scrutiny. But he'd been waiting for something like this. A sudden revelation, a miracle, and then his faith would be rewarded. Merlin would somehow be just fine, and Arthur would be able to breathe again.

And it had happened.

His legs went a bit funny, so he staggered into the nearest cell - room - and sat down on an unmade bunk. Morgana and a bunch of others squeezed in as well, crowding the tiny space.

The cell had a window to the outside now, a huge uneven rectangle cut in the concrete. Instead of glass some pinkish film wobbled between the edges of the hole.

"All right. Run all this by me again," he said. "And by the way, I would kill for a cup of tea right now."

"We don't have tea," said one of the men.

"Well, you should get some," he said sternly. "For now magic me up a cuppa."

"Conjured food is a bit gross," said Morgana. "You can have some of mine."

She pulled a plastic travel box of teabags out of her hand bag. It was that weird herbal stuff she'd been drinking since she was fifteen. He never touched it, but he remembered the smell, and he suddenly missed it.

"That vile crap, okay, give it here," he said. Someone found him a foam cup and filled it at the sink; another guy boiled it by sticking his finger in the water. Arthur pulled a face and dunked the teabag in.

"All right," he said again. "Start from the beginning."

"Don't you want to see Merlin?" Morgana asked. "He's just here, I was taking you to him."

"If I see that tosser right now, I'll break all his teeth. I need to process this first."

Aglain pushed forward and cleared his throat.

"A few centuries ago," he said.

"Yes, magic began to wane, skip to how Merlin's immortal."

Aglain cocked an eyebrow disapprovingly and obliged.

"The birth of Emrys was prophesied, and it would happen in our darkest hour of need. We waited for him and sought him out. But when he was born, before he learned to hide and suppress his gift, he was very powerful. He must have sensed us reaching out for him, and he shut us out. He was only a baby, I suppose he simply wanted to stay with his mother. We didn't know he'd arrived till my people saw him with their own eyes. Of course, not all believed us."

"Yes, do dredge that up now, in front of the outsider," said Tauren sourly.

"The druids are attuned to nature, we see to the heart of things," Aglain pressed on. "Others, preoccupied with arcane trickery and amusing gadgets, only saw a very gifted and a very brave boy. When Emrys decided to shatter his connection to the land, to assist you in your quest, he was told it would be suicide."

"Which it was," Muirden pointed out. "He died. Like I said he would. It was a qualified medical opinion, and neither you nor he listened."

"He didn't," Arthur said. "I was there, he didn't die. His heart stopped for a moment, but I did CPR..."

He trailed off, feeling stupid. Morgana patted his back.

"I'm sure your CPR helped," she said patronisingly.

"I encouraged Emrys to break the link," said Aglain proudly, and Arthur suppressed an impulse to splash his vile-smelling hot tea in his smug face. "I knew he'd rise again from that, and this would prove his identity to everyone once and for all. Only Emrys possesses true immortality."

"It's what the word means," Tauren supplied. "Emrys means "immortal", literally."

"So that's how he's literally Emrys," Arthur said. "He knew that back in Wales and didn't tell me. Why didn't he tell me?"

"You'll have to ask him that," Morgana said. "Arthur, I'm sure he didn't want you to see what happened."

Arthur nodded and put the cup on the sink, untouched. Merlin had always been idiotically committed to protecting Arthur from the truth. He must have been planning to get sacrificed by his brethren in private, once he'd returned here. He wouldn't even have told Arthur about it after he'd bounced back.

"It wasn't done right," said Aglain. "The Ritual of a Sacred King is a beautiful, sombre ceremony. And knowing that our symbolic king was immortal, and would live again once he gave his lifeblood and his magic to us - it would've been a joyous ritual. But the High Priestess made her decision without consulting anyone. As usual."

"She played it quite well, I thought," said Tauren. "The way she staged it - it made an impact."

Arthur just glared at him, too exhausted to sustain his anger.

"We never planned for this," said Aglain. "We thought the purpose of Emrys was to lead the battle. But the path he chose - to give himself, to gift his magic back to us, to the land, to change hearts towards peace... It's affected everyone in a way that's even deeper than magic."

Arthur wanted to scream at them that Merlin didn't choose it. He was roped into accepting. They'd been cornered, Arthur caught in the middle of it, Merlin not given a moment to think. But he knew that left to his own devices Merlin might choose that anyway. Merlin was just that kind of moron. If he thought it would help someone he cared about, he'd sacrifice himself without a second thought. Arthur needed to draw some solid ground rules on that subject, because that kind of crap could seriously fuck up their relationship. Which really didn't need more working against it: it was already going to be mostly long-distance and logistically complicated.

"Okay," he said. "So, fine, where is he? Is he hiding in his room because he knows I'm about to wring his skinny lying neck? Why didn't he let me know he's alive?"

"He's still asleep," said Muirden.

"What? I know he sleeps for England, but it's been days!"

"It might be weeks. It might be months or years. I healed his body once we'd recovered it, but his spirit is lost on the mystic plane. Magic on that scale has a steep price."

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. It went as well as it had for the past two days. His body craved sleep so much that it instantly attempted to shut down - all his muscles went heavy and loose, and his mind tumbled into the dark. And then that black thing that nestled just below the surface leapt at him again, a roaring ball of rage and grief and fear. It hit him right in the chest and made his breath stutter, and he was wide awake again.

He picked up his briefcase.

"Let's go over the proposal first," he said. "I don't think I'll be able to afterwards."  
They'd put Merlin in his old cell. It was untouched by their redecorating efforts. They said they wanted him to have the pleasure of ripping up the bars himself. It still looked as Arthur remembered it, with the hole into the adjoining cell and Mordred's drawings stuck to the walls. The only new thing was a neat row of foam cups on the floor by the bars. Every cup held a little bouquet of fresh wild-flowers.

Merlin looked better than he'd expected. Arthur'd seen him a lot worse. He still wore his jeans and blue shirts, and they looked clean, but the scarf had got lost somewhere. He was laid out on his bunk, his feet carefully wrapped in a blanket; he seemed comfortable. Looked after.

Someone was in there with him. Arthur'd not seen this man before. He was in civilian clothes, and he sat on the edge of the bed, holding Merlin's hand. He was talking. His voice was rough and scratchy as if he'd been speaking non-stop for several hours.

"So I said to her: Hunith, you're a hot babe, you need some fun in your life and Merlin would hate to see you shut yourself inside four walls like this. Just go on one date and see what happens, the bloke seems nice..."

When Arthur approached, the man gave him a distracted wave over his shoulder, not turning around, and said:

"I think he's getting better. He can definitely hear me. He just moved his fingers again."

"Who are you?" Arthur asked.

"I'm his best friend," the man said, finally gracing him with a glance. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm his boyfriend," Arthur said.

"So you must be Arthur, then," the man regarded him with angry narrowed eyes, surveying his suit and briefcase critically. "He didn't mention you were a corporate sell-out wanker. Where were you, boyfriend, when this happened to him? Too busy yachting?"

"I was handcuffed," Arthur said. "If you're his best friend, how come I've never seen you before?"

"Because I've not seen this stupid twat since he bailed on me and his mum without a good-bye. Imagine, not a word for over two years, and then the other day I get this in the post."

The man pulled a battered envelope from his pocket and handed it to Arthur. It held a folded blank of a requisition form, and the reverse side was covered in an uneven angular scrawl.

That had to be Merlin's handwriting; Arthur hadn't seen it before. He touched the letters with his fingertips, trying to picture how they'd been written, Merlin's hand moving over this piece of paper. This was a glimpse at a new side of Merlin, a deeper insight into who he was. He started reading, slowly making his way through messy hurried lines. The letters were comically misshapen - Merlin clearly hadn't held a pen in years.

 _Hi Will,_

Been a while, huh? Sorry. I thought it would be best this way. I missed you, you'll never know how much. I always thought I'd see you again some day but it looks like I won't after all. I'm not going to die, don't think that, okay? But I'll be away. Probably forever. A long time, anyway. I thought I should tell you so you and Mum would stop waiting, because I think you still are.

I tried writing to her but I just can't. So you'll have to tell her for me. Yes, it's a shitty thing to ask but I'm asking. I know you'll do it right.

I need you both to know that I'm happy. I have a boyfriend! Haha well maybe it's not so much of a shock. His name is Arthur. He's very handsome and amazing in every way once you get to know him. I wish you'd met him, you'd get on, I just know it. I never really told him, not in so many words, but I

Arthur stopped reading, folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. Whatever Merlin hadn't told him yet, he was planning on hearing it from his own lips.

"I'd been looking for him," Will said, rubbing his thumb over the back of Merlin's hand. "I've been looking for you, you jerk, do you hear me? Found some people with warlock connections, but they weren't much help. And then this - did you see, he used printed stationery, it says Wales Facility for women right there in the top corner. Bit of a subtle clue there, right? How did you survive on the run, Merlin, I'll never know, you're such an idiot. I went back to my contacts with this new info, they made some calls, and suddenly I'm offered a teleport here. And this is what I find."

"You're a good friend," Arthur said sincerely, even though something in him whined jealously at the thought of this stranger possessing a huge chunk of Merlin's heart. "I'm glad he has you."

"I don't need your validation, suit boy. I'm not sure yet if I approve of you."

Arthur stepped closer and knelt by the bed to take a better look at Merlin's face. He looked just like he did when he was deeply asleep: his face was soft, slightly flushed, and his eyes moved a little under closed eyelids.

"They said I might be able to guide him back. Familiar voice, all that," Will said. "It looks like he's responding more now. I should bring his mum, really. But I don't want her to see him like this. She's been through enough."

"Of course. Let's give him a couple of days," Arthur said. "There is a girl he maybe fancies a bit, I'll see if I can bring her here."

"Freya? Yeah, she's been. She's left for the night, she has some medical condition or something. Lots of people came. He's got an okay life, really. I was worried he'd be lonely."

Will gently placed Merlin's hand on the mattress and got up.

"Gonna go find some nosh," he said. "You two can have your gay moment."

Arthur waited till they were alone. Then he took Merlin's hand and pressed his lips to the delicate branch of blue veins on the inside of his wrist.

"I need you so much," he whispered.

When he looked up again, Merlin was smiling at him.

"Hey," Merlin said, just a little hoarse, bright-eyed. "Told you it would only be a few days. It was, right?"

And then, running his hand down Arthur's lapels:

"Wow. You look amazing in a suit."

Arthur had a long speech already prepared for this moment. He was going to yell and demand apologies, and force Merlin to make him at least five different promises, or maybe blood oaths, even. And then he was going to tell Merlin a ton of really embarrassing, mushy stuff, and not give a fuck how stupid he sounded.

In the end he managed to say only one thing:

"Shove over a bit."

Merlin readily wriggled his hips on the bed and shifted closer to the wall. Arthur climbed in with him, shoes still on, carelessly creasing his jacket. He wrapped his arms snugly around Merlin's ribs and kissed him, and smiled to himself at how wonderfully familiar it felt. Merlin clung to him and kissed him back till Arthur's eyes closed from the pleasure of it, and then there was only a bright glow under his eyelids, and Merlin's lips on his skin.


	16. Isle of the Blessed

"Arthur. Arthur, wake up."

Arthur stirred and let out a grumpy moan. He was warm and content in a deep, all-encompassing way, in every bit of his soul and down to his bones. He didn't want to break out of this cosy bliss.

But Merlin was rubbing his shoulder and pushing his buzzing phone into his hand, and Arthur took it and peeled his eyes open.

"It's your father," Merlin said. "You should answer."

Arthur dragged his thumb down the screen and made a cheerful grunting noise into the phone, over Uther's agitated voice.

"Dad," he mumbled through a yawn. "I know, I said I'd call. I fell asleep, sorry."

Uther was quiet for a moment.

"I see," he said then. "Son, I know you've been exhausted since you came back. But it can't be safe to sleep there."

"I slept here for a week, you know," Arthur said, and clearly imagined his father's face darkening with guilt and sadness. He'd seen that a lot over the past few days. Sometimes he couldn't resist reminding him, just to satisfy the steady burn of anger he'd been living with. He wanted to blame Uther for so many things, wanted to throw everything he'd seen and learned in his father's face. Everything Merlin had been through, and Morgana leaving home, and all these people twisted into ugly, heartless creatures by fear and pain. Gwen and Lancelot and countless others made into criminals just for wanting to help those in need. So much of all this was Uther's fault. But he still loved his father, with the same fierce devotion as always. He was doing this for Uther as much as he was doing this for Merlin and Morgana, and Lance and Gwen. This was the only way out: make amends, admit the mistakes, repair the damage. It had be done now, while Uther was still in power, before the decision was taken out of his hands.

"Dad, it's okay, really," he said soothingly. "I'm just powernapping while they're discussing the offer. It's going very well."

He curled up again, discovering Merlin's familiar body everywhere, underneath him and over him. He tucked his head against Merlin's chest to breath in his scent on every inhale, and folded his legs so they pressed against Merlin's calves and thighs and ankles.

"Good, that's good," Uther said. "I still worry for you. You should come outside, Arthur. It's been hours."

"I'm safe," said Arthur. "They respect my diplomatic status, such as it is. And... I'm Merlin's boyfriend."

Since he'd returned home he'd talked in the past tense about Merlin. Except about their relationship, because that wasn't over, even if Merlin was gone. It was all silly semantics but right now he was glad and proud, as if he'd passed some arbitrary test set up for him by fate.

"He could protect you while he was there, but now..."

"That's not how they see it, Dad. Look, I'm going to spend the night. There is still a lot to do, I want to keep up the momentum. They're about to agree to disband their terrorist groups if we stop enforcing the sections right now."

"Arthur, I'd rather you... They still have active cells?"

"Apparently. Maybe it's a bluff, I don't fancy calling it, personally. Oh, and..."

He was going to keep Morgana's secret, but it was needlessly cruel. He knew that Uther missed Morgana maybe even more than he had, and his father deserved a bit of good news after all the compromises he'd made.

"Dad, they say they have information that can be of personal interest to us. It concerns someone we know. They don't want anything for that, they'd just tell us. Should I ask?"

Uther was silent for a long time, and Arthur knew that meant his father understood his hints.

"No details," Uther said. "Nothing is official yet. I still need deniability. I only want to know if she's alive and safe. Just that. If she needs help, then..."

"Okay. I'll do that. I'll see you tomorrow. Go home, Dad, please, get some rest. I'll get the perimeter patrols to drive me to the station."

He ended the call without waiting for reply and slid the phone back into his pocket. Then he pressed both palms to Merlin's sides, just to feel him like that, whole, breathing, thrumming with life.

"Smooth," Merlin said in a carefully level voice. "Can't believe he just... goes with it."

"He's different now," Arthur said into his shirt. "Everything is different."

They were on the roof. Arthur didn't remember moving from the bed – Merlin must have carried him here. Or, more likely, used magic. It was already dark, but the night was warm, the air still and gentle on his skin. He was cradled in Merlin's lap; he pulled back a little, without slipping out of loose circle of Merlin's arms, and turned onto his back to look upwards.

The sky above them was pitch black, clear and full of stars, and against that brilliant backdrop there was Merlin's face, beautiful and dear.

Merlin gave him a shy, lop-sided smile. He looked uncertain, wavering. He was waiting for Arthur to speak, and they had a lot to talk about. There was important information to share, plans to be made, and Arthur still wanted to do a lot of yelling. But the words wouldn't come. He lay there, silently looking at Merlin, feeling complete and calm in a way he had't known was possible. For as long as he could remember he'd always strived to become something: a good student, a strong athlete, a successful politician, a good man. Someone his father would be proud of, someone who would make a difference, leave a mark on the world. Now he simply was, and that was enough.

"Did you see your friend?" he asked, suddenly remembering, and Merlin's face spilt in a huge happy grin.

"Yes. We talked while you slept. He went home for now. He's just," Merlin laughed, waving his hands, too giddy to express himself with words alone. "He made me promise I'd visit. He just refuses to accept that I left to protect them, he's so..."

"You can now," said Arthur urgently, scrambling up to sit next to him. "You can see him, and your mother, it's okay even if someone finds out. Not reporting a warlock is no longer going to be a crime. We're getting rid of all the laws that target the non-magical people, the sympathisers. It's only a start, but... Where's my briefcase?"

"Downstairs, the guys are reading your papers. They explained to me what you're trying to do. Do you really think it's all going to happen?"

"It's happening. We got unofficial nods from all the right people, it will only take a few months to push everything through the Parliament. I'm pretty sure the Commission will stop arresting civilians as soon as we have some reassurance from the warlock community."

"I heard - in exchange for disbanding the cells, right?"

"Well, that I made up, obviously, but they'll go with it. Nobody wants to start paperwork on cases that might be dismissed. Wait, do you actually have terrorist cells?"

"Tauren has a few sleepers down south," Merlin said very casually. "I'll talk to him. Still, I can't believe - it's only been days, and we're already talking about legal changes. We thought it would take years."

"I was a bit surprised how easy it all was," Arthur said. "But it all makes sense now. It's all because of you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Because of the ritual. And we need to talk about that."

He shot out a hand and flicked Merlin on the ear. Merlin's mouth fell open in a grimace of pain and surprise; Arthur instantly felt sorry, but he was determined to be firm about this.

"You are a heartless selfish git," Arthur said with all the righteous anger he could muster.

"What?" Merlin yelped, looking betrayed. "Oh, because I sacrificed myself for others, I'm-"

"Heartless, selfish git with a messianic complex," Arthur amended. "How could you do that to me? And if you say you didn't think I'd care I'll punch you in the face. You know damn well how I feel about you. You knew what it would do to me, and you just let me think you died. Why the fuck didn't you tell me you're immortal?"

"I didn't even know myself," Merlin said testily, rubbing at his ear. "God, and you have the bollocks to call me selfish? By the time I'd found out I was going to bargain with Nimueh. Come on, Arthur, you know why I didn't tell you. If you thought I was going to be kept alive and captive, I knew you'd try to rescue me. Hell, for all you knew I was dead by the time you woke up, and you still went after me! I didn't - I wanted you safe. I thought it would be best that way."

"You need to stop thinking, Merlin, it never ends well," Arthur said. "But why didn't you tell me afterwards? There was plenty of time! Okay, fine, you didn't expect I'd have to watch you get shot, but still. You kind of supposed to tell your boyfriend if you're immortal, it's a big deal!"

Merlin closed his eyes and hung his head.

"I didn't want you to know," he said quietly. "I was hoping maybe you'd never find out."

"Fuck, Merlin, why?"

"Well, it's a bit creepy, isn't it?"

Arthur stared at him in disbelief till Merlin tired of the pause and met his eyes again.

"You put me through an absolute hell," Arthur said slowly, hoping that the words would penetrate Merlin's bizarre mind. "Because you thought it would be a bit creepy to tell me the truth. I have no words for you right now."

"Well, it's unnatural, isn't it? Everything alive is mortal. Except me. I didn't want you to think I'm some kind of... weird creature."

"I knew you were a weird creature when I first laid eyes on you," Arthur said. Merlin's face scrunched up in misery, and Arthur carried on. "No, technically, when I first saw you, I just thought you were a regular warlock. But when you took me to your room and said you'd protect me from your friends and ask for nothing in return, that's when I thought: what a weird, weird creature with zero common sense. And my opinion of you hasn't changed a bit since. Oh, and by the way, right then, in that cell, I also thought: crap, I'll probably have to watch this kid get killed in front of me. And look! I was right again!"

"Oh yeah, I remember that day," Merlin said with a chuckle, brightening up. "I also formed my opinion about you right then. When you told me not to protect you because I might get in trouble, I thought: oh god. What a complete dollophead. And I was spot on!"

"So the feeling was mutual at first sight, then," said Arthur sentimentally.

"Pretty much, yeah," Merlin rose on his knees and pressed against Arthur in a tight, warm hug. "Yeah."

Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin's back and held him close, and for some reason felt like crying again even though he wasn't sad at all.

"All right, I guess I should have told you," whispered Merlin, dragging his lips along Arthur's hairline, dropping small kisses on his forehead.

"That's right, and you should be sorry," Arthur said gruffly. "Next time you think you know what would be best, run your plan by me before doing anything, all right?"

Merlin shifted against him in a way that could be a nod, or could be anything. Arthur stroked his hands down Merlin's back and tried to picture all the ways in which he was different, beyond human: his every cell shimmering with strange energy, his life tethered to something huge and eternal. Merlin felt perfectly normal, well-known and right under his palms, and everywhere they touched Merlin's body radiated wonderful, tingly heat into Arthur's skin.

"This is, come to think of it, the only way we can have a normal, functional relationship," Arthur said. "Since we met - in the space of two weeks – I've watched you nearly die about five times. You're a menace to yourself, Merlin. I can only keep my sanity if I know you're indestructible."

Merlin sighed into his hair, curling his fingers over Arthur's collar.

"I don't even know how I'm going to age," he said. "Or, if. Nobody's sure what's going to happen."

"Hmm," Arthur said, lecherously groping Merlin's skinny arse. "So there's a possibility that when I'm old and gross I'll still have a sexy twink in my bed?"

"Yes, theoretically, there is that possibility," Merlin said with a little laugh and kissed Arthur's jaw. "Oh, you'll be such a hot silver fox. Quite looking forward to that."

Arthur caught his lips and kissed him with abandon, thinking about years and decades ahead, and Merlin, always there, always his. It was a bit premature, he knew. But Merlin had beaten death, changed the world; they'd defeat whatever relationship troubles could be lying in wait. They were invincible.

"Okay, I'm going to tell you a secret," Merlin said, pulling back. "You want me to be honest with you, right?"

"Right," mumbled Arthur, chasing his mouth for another kiss.

"So, I think you should know this, it's really important. But.. don't tell anyone. Not yet."

"Yeah, okay," Arthur said, and felt giddy, shivery warmth pooling in his stomach, because this could only be one thing. Merlin was going to tell him what he hadn't told him before, what he only put into words in his letter to Will, the words Arthur stopped himself from reading. But Arthur knew what it was, he was certain. Merlin loved him, and he was going to tell him that, right now. And Arthur - Arthur was going to tell him, too, even though he was never a fan of soppy confessions. It was already obvious, they both knew it, they didn't have to say it. But maybe it was all about the gesture: laying themselves bare like that in ultimate surrender, opening their hearts to the possibility of the cruellest pain, throwing themselves at each other's mercy, in faith and hope.

Merlin shuffled back and sat on his heels. He looked at Arthur, solemn and serious, and then said:

"I don't think the ritual worked."

"What?" Arthur asked, feeling horribly cheated. "What the.. That doesn't even make sense! Of course it worked! Everyone feels their magic got stronger, they told me that!"

"Yeah, that's the placebo effect. Magic is like that. The majority of warlocks will never tap into their full potential, but it's only their mind holding them back. If they believe they suddenly can access more power, most of them will be able to."

"But, no! The tide of the war has turned, like they said it would! Merlin, come on, you said it yourself. It's unbelievable how everything changed in just days. The party wants to rethink the policy on warlocks, the opposition supports that. The Commission wants to narrow its operation to cases that pose actual public threat. All my suggestions get the green light, everything goes right to the top of the queue, and my father is leading this initiative! It has to be because of the ritual! There's no other explanation!"

"There is," Merlin said. He was looking at Arthur with an affectionate, proud smile, as if he had no doubt Arthur would figure it out.

"Well," Arthur said. "Fair enough, some of it is down to the right timing. There is a lot of pressure from the civil rights groups. The opposition's whole platform is based on rolling back the laws that limit public freedoms. For the party to do this now – we're stealing their thunder, the next election is ours. And the opposition can't be against it, not after all their campaigning against the police state. So it is politically prudent, everyone agrees when I put it like that."

Merlin was nodding along, and Arthur continued:

"And, of course, what happened to me shook up a lot of people. If warlocks could set up the son of Uther Pendragon, nobody is safe. Now people want due process and careful investigation. It was a bit of a wake up call. I told the Prime Minister: sir, imagine your daughter Vivian dragged through the system on a fake accusation, and he just went white. So, maybe... No, Merlin, it's magic. It has to be because of your magic."

It had to be, Arthur wanted it to be because of magic. The magnitude of the work ahead would be terrifying, if he didn't believe that magic would help them. If they had that benevolent ineffable force on their side, if their cause was blessed by the power of Emrys and the land itself - then they would succeed. They just had to keep at it.

"Everything's changed," Arthur said adamantly. "My father has changed. He brings me into every meeting as a consultant, he listens to everything I say. I came out to him, properly, I told him everything. And yes, initially he flipped out like I'd expected. But just this morning at breakfast he asked if I'd still consider having biological children by a surrogate mother, after I'd married the man of my dreams. How odd is that? And we hug now! He hugs me!"

"Come on, Arthur," Merlin said. "Do you really think your father wants to hug you because of the ancient blood magic ritual? He missed you. He nearly lost you. Of course he's different now. That's nothing to do with magic. You can't chalk everything up to one spell."

"It was a spell powered by your blood," Arthur reminded him. "For that kind of price I expect everything and then some."

"No, it's just you, Arthur. It's all just you. I knew you'd do it, you'd turn things around, you'd make peace. And you are. People listen to you, because you're you. You didn't need any magic to help you. And I need you to know this. Right now everyone thinks the world has changed and the war is already won. But it's not. There's still many battles ahead. We won't be accepted as equals overnight, and the blood between us won't be forgotten. The euphoria will wear off and my people will start questioning just how blessed they are. And they'll tell you that whatever you do is too little too late, and there will be hate and violence again. It won't be all magically better. But you can make things right. You will. Just believe in yourself. Even though you're just a student, even though..."

"I won't be just a student for much longer. The Prime Minister is appointing me to the new committee to deal with the legal transitions," Arthur said proudly. "I'll have some clout of my own."

He expected Merlin's eyes to light up even more at the news, and he expected congratulations and celebratory snogging. Instead Merlin squinted at him in disbelief and said:

"What, already? At twenty-two, straight out of school? It's really all about nepotism in politics, isn't it?"

"Hey, I deserve this job! I'm perfectly qualified! What happened to 'it's all because I'm me'?"

"I was just being supportive," Merlin said distractedly, chewing on his thumbnail. "Maybe the ritual did work - Arthur, listen, I should tell you this. Nimueh wanted you to witness it. She sent Mordred to track you down while we were still together, so you'd be there when it happened."

"Yes, she wanted me to watch and suffer," Arthur shrugged. "Obviously."

"I suppose there was that. But I spoke to her before she put me in the tree. I told her about you, what kind of man you are, why I'd give my life for you. And then she said she might have made a mistake back in the Eighties. She rushed into things and sided with the wrong Pendragon."

Arthur flinched, trying to grasp all the possible implications of that. He didn't think he'd got through to Nimueh when they'd spoken, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted her support. He definitely didn't want to be tangled up in an ancient prophecy. He already had more than enough on his plate.

"I agreed to the ritual because I thought it would help my people," Merlin continued. "I thought that was the purpose of Emrys, to give my magic back to them. But with Morgause, Mordred and the soldiers there, I was afraid they'd do something to you if I refused. So I kind of did it for you. And I kind of have your fealty, right?"

"Well, I am your boyfriend," Arthur said. "I wouldn't call that fealty, exactly."

"Doesn't matter. Rituals work with technicalities and symbols. Nimueh staged it all so the grace would spread onto you, as well. So, if it worked... Even though you don't have magic, now you are blessed with luck and great power. Use it wisely, okay?"

"Oh," Arthur said. "Um. Thanks for that."

Handy as that sounded, it was a bit too much responsibility than he was ready to shoulder. This might mean his decisions would be accepted and supported even if they were ultimately dumb and would lead to disasters. If the world would allow him to do as he pleased, then he couldn't make mistakes. Whatever he would set out to do had to be right.  
He was going to need a truly kick-ass team of advisers.  
"Eh, maybe the ritual didn't work after all," Arthur said. "Why did you think it hadn't worked?"

"It was supposed to drain me. My magic was meant to spread over the land, and I'd be diminished. But... I don't feel less. I feel a lot stronger."

Merlin lifted his hands and let his power glow, just like Arthur seen him do many times before. But now it wasn't just shining through his eyes. The light was seeping through his skin, everywhere, haloing him against the black sky. His fingers were ten incandescent golden rays, and every time he moved them Arthur almost felt the fabric of the world swirl and shift in tiny ripples, accommodating Merlin's will.

"Oh wow," he breathed and dived into that light, grabbed Merlin and pressed against him, moaning as the power washed over him and whispered over and under his skin. And then a terrible thought occurred to him, and he dug his fingers into Merlin's glowing shoulders and shook him hard, making the light blink out in surprise.  
"So you power up every time you die," Arthur said. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. And if you ever - ever! - even think to experiment with that, forget it right now. I absolutely forbid you. You don't know, maybe you have limited number of lives! Or what if you end up with permanent brain damage? Have you thought of that?"

"What?" Merlin asked. "Are you serious? Do you have any idea how much it hurts to die? How scary it is? Fuck that, no. Never again."

"Let me see," Arthur said, hastily unbuttoning Merlin's shirts.

"There's nothing. No scars."

"Let me see that there's nothing," said Arthur stubbornly and pushed the fabric away. Merlin's chest was smooth and flawless, just like it used to be, and he ran his fingers over the soft skin, over and over, relishing its texture.

"Morgause told Edwin I was already breathing in the morgue. Nobody noticed because I was still in the body bag when she took me. All the wounds had closed by the time she brought me here. Edwin opened them up to remove the scar tissue," Merlin said, staring down at Arthur's hand on his chest, speaking detachedly like all of that had happened to someone else. He'd only been awake for a couple of hours, and perhaps none of it had sunk in yet. But for now Arthur could hope that the experience truly wouldn't leave any scars, and they could just forget it ever happened. "So my heart is good as new. In case you thought I needed to take it easy or something."

"That's good to know," Arthur said, lightly thumbing Merlin's hardening nipple, and then ducked down to mouth at it. Merlin gasped and writhed against him, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, pulling his tie loose. Arthur kept kissing his chest, imagining Merlin's heart beating under his lips, whole and strong, indestructible.

Merlin groaned in frustration, clawing at Arthur's belt buckle, and Arthur helped him, pushed his trousers down together with his boxers and wrestled Merlin's jeans off his harrow hips. They kissed again, kneeling together on the gritty roof surface, clothes half-off, hard cocks sticking out, rubbing against each other clumsily. And then they couldn't stop kissing, couldn't tear their mouths apart. Merlin pushed closer and wrapped his long fingers around both their shafts, stroking and squeezing frantically, without any rhythm. Arthur would have put his hand over his, made him slow down, made it better, dragged it out. But he was too busy groping Merlin everywhere he could reach and kissing his lips, messily and desperately like there was no tomorrow. Except there was tomorrow, and countless days after, and they'd get to do this so many times yet. They'd get to do everything.

He wrestled Merlin down and braced over him, fucking into his tight fist, their cocks sliding together. Merlin's free hand was carding through Arthur's hair, gently, and he was muttering something into Arthur's mouth as they kissed: incoherent promises, silly endearments, small spells that tingled down Arthur's spine and crackled between them. Merlin came first, his mouth going slack under Arthur's, breath stuttering sweetly, his heels drumming against the roof. He kept stroking Arthur as he came down, slowly and steadily now, his hand slick with his come, every twist of his hand sure and perfect. Arthur was close, so close, right on the edge; for one awful moment he felt like he was too tired, too wrecked by the last few days. He wouldn't be able to push through it, wouldn't be able to come, would just hang there, desperate and wanting - and then Merlin swiftly rolled them over and slid down, and closed his lips over Arthur's straining cock. He sucked greedily, lapping up his own come, glancing up at Arthur with golden sparks in his eyes. New, sharp bliss rolled through Arthur's body, making his head swim, and then he was coming, spilling into Merlin's wet mouth, feeling the last of the pain and darkness fall off his soul like old skin.

He barely felt it when Merlin crawled back up to nestle in his arms, still dizzy and weak from the force of his release. Then he licked a stray splash of come off Merlin's cheek and pillowed his head on Merlin's shoulder.

"We should go to bed," Merlin said after a while, and only then Arthur realised he'd begun to doze off. "Morgana told me you've not slept for days, you should rest."

"No," said Arthur petulantly. He wasn't ready for the night to be over.

"Don't need to get up, I'll magic us back there..."

"I don't want to go back in that cell."

"Okay," agreed Merlin easily. "Well, next time you see it, it will be really nice. I'll redecorate. What's your favourite colour?"

"Red," Arthur mumbled and nuzzled at Merlin's neck. "Or salmon. Hey, listen. I'm not really angry at Mordred, now that you're alive. He's just a boy, he's confused and scared and he's out there somewhere, all alone. We need to find him."

"Oh, I'll find him," said Merlin, and the tone of his voice confirmed Arthur's worst suspicions.

"Merlin, no. We can still bring him back. It's not his fault. Shitty things happened to him too early in life, he's messed up. And he knew you wouldn't die, didn't he? He didn't mean you permanent harm. He was just lashing out."

"Arthur, I told you about the prophecy. He will destroy that which I love the most, unless I kill him," Merlin said, awfully calm, as if he wasn't talking about murdering a child. "It was funny when there was nothing I cared about. Well, I loved Mum and Will but I left that life behind, I didn't think he'd ever harm them. But now there's you. And he already wants you dead. He left the Facility right after we did and he sought Nimueh out. She told me that. She said he told her he could track you down, so she could take her revenge despite my meddling. Maybe he thinks without you it would be just like it used to be. I'd mope in my cell, without any hope or purpose in my life, and he'd be my only friend. Maybe he just wants to hurt me for leaving him, for choosing you. I need to stop him."

"We can stop him without killing him," Arthur insisted. "He's a nice kid, really. I think we almost connected. He'll come around. We'll get him help, therapy, whatever. We can't do this by halves. If we want peace, we'll have to forgive our enemies."

"God," Merlin said and reverently kissed Arthur's eyelids. "You. How are you even real? This is a bad idea, Arthur. But, fine. I'll think about it."

It wasn't enough of a reassurance, but it would do for now. The prophecy was awfully vague, after all. Maybe they couldn't prevent all that from happening. But even so - perhaps they could put it off, delay it for years, decades. It could be seventy years before the seer's words would come to pass.

Arthur imagined himself at the ripe age of ninety-two, frail and grey, playing chess with a futuristic robot butler in the back garden of their summer house in Devon. Then he pictured angry octogenarian Mordred bounding the hedge with the help of his hover-zimmer and advancing on him, and future Merlin, looking exactly as he did now, bursting out of the conservatory doors with a deadly spell at the ready. However that played out, it was the kind of tragic destiny he could live with.

"So, moving on, I have a shitload of early meetings scheduled this week," Arthur said. "I'll come over on Thursday to discuss our progress, and I'll smuggle you a phone so you can text me every day like you wanted. But I won't be able to spend the night till Saturday - fuck, I can't believe I'm jonesing to spend another night in prison."

"We don't have to, you know," said Merlin, trailing lazy kisses over Arthur's face. "We can go somewhere else. Remember that B'n'B in the West Midlands where we didn't stop over? We totally should go back there."

"Could do," Arthur agreed. "Once I get the enchanted guards out of the Wales Facility, we'll be going there a lot. We'll need the women's council. And I kind of love their castle. I'll ask Morgana to hold that room for me."

"Yes, I like that room," Merlin smiled.

"And we should go back to the lakes sometime," said Arthur. "Have a picnic on an island. And we should go out with Lance and Gwen, make it a double date. And - you know what? Merlin, you're officially dead now. You're out of the system. I'll make sure your file is properly sealed, and your picture and prints won't flash up anywhere. Your real identity would be clean. You could go home. You can have a last name again, go back to school, be with your mother..."

Merlin stiffened in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. Arthur ruffled his hair comfortingly and continued:

"Actually, you're way too old to live with your mum. And it's time I got my own place, too. We could..."

He trailed off, staring at Merlin's face as it slowly lit up with a smile, and then they laughed together, huddled against each other, shivering a little at the night's chill and the magnitude of the possibilities.

"No, it's too soon," Merlin said.

"It's not."

"Not for us, I don't mean that. Arthur, I'm needed here. I can't leave my people. When they can live free, then..."

"You told me once I was all you wanted," Arthur said. It was a shaky ground to tread, but he'd imagined it now: their own little flat in London, waking up together every morning - he couldn't give that up so easily. "What if I asked you to give this up and walk away and just-"

"You wouldn't, though," Merlin said confidently. "That's not you. Listen, I have one last secret to tell you. I don't become stronger when I die, that's nothing to do with it. I've finally figured it out. My power's been growing since we've been together."

"So it's all down to sex magic?" Arthur asked eagerly. "I strongly encourage you to experiment with that!"

"Haha, no. Well, maybe, definitely worth experimenting, yeah. But, really - it's like all my life I've been trying not to be who I am. I had to hide my magic, like it was something wrong and shameful, till I believed that's what it was. And then there was the riot, and I felt all that, all our rage and bloodlust, and I thought we really were monsters, like everyone always said. I didn't think anything could ever change, and my power was useless. Even with the barrier - it wasn't doing anything good. It was only stopping more horrible things from happening. But then there was you, and even though I couldn't save myself or my people I could at least help you. Except you didn't want to stop there. You - okay, this will sound stupid."

"Like that's a new thing for you," Arthur scoffed and got kneed in a thigh.

"Okay, fine," Merlin said gruffly. "You made me believe in a just and fair world. I believe now that it's possible. So... I'm growing into my power. I didn't want it, and it was waiting for me, but I'm finally ready. I can do great things with it, I know that now. I'm becoming who I'm meant to be."

Arthur felt a little bit like that, too. When he'd thought about the future before it was always very ambitious and very hazy. He was going to make his father proud, change the world for the better, find a worthy cause to fight for. And somewhere along the way he was going to find love. Now all of that was within reach, right here. He'd arrived at the beginning of his journey. His path was clear; his life was about to unfold like a story in a book, and he was looking forward to living through each twist and turn of it.

"Ugh. We've got to get up soon. I'm really hungry, and my arse is naked and cold," Merlin muttered against his cheek, not making any attempt to move. "And yet I'm so fucking happy right now, it's untrue."

"Yeah," Arthur said and hugged him tighter, and kissed him.  
the end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Arcane Asylum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935286) by [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba)




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